


Swimming in the Flood

by armyofskanks



Series: five years without rain [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: College/University, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Ushijima/Tendou/Shirabu but only in chapter one, Mutual Pining, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, The oc is just there to kick it and add variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 05:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofskanks/pseuds/armyofskanks
Summary: “Look, you’ve put up crazy big emotional walls. But if you’re willing to lower them, even just a little bit…” Tendou pinches his fingers together to illustratejusthow little he means. “You might be pleasantly surprised who’s willing to climb over.”“That seems tedious,” Shirabu says.In which Shirabu topples those emotional walls and discovers that it’s not so scary on the other side.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! I won't bog you down with a long opening note, but there's a few things you should know about this story.
> 
> (1) This is my first fic. Actually, this is my first attempt at prose, too. If it sounds amateurish, it's because it is! 
> 
> (2) This fic is unbeta'd. It has been updated/cleaned-up as of 8/5/18, but any lingering mistakes are all moi.
> 
> (3) Yes, there is a little bit of Ushi/Shi/Ten in this chapter. Don't panic, it's very brief. 
> 
> I also want to thank YOU in advance for reading. I really hope you'll enjoy my first dabble in writing.
> 
> See the ending notes for my acknowledgements :)

“Alright teams, the next question is: what is the fastest land animal?”

Before the announcer can even finish the sentence, Shirabu already knows the answer. It’s a pathetically easy question, more suited for a children’s magazine than a college trivia night. He fights back the urge to scream it out and save everyone some trouble.

In the interest of decorum, he settles for a loud whisper. “It’s a fucking cheetah.”

“Oh yeah, definitely a cheetah,” Watari agrees, starting to scribble down the answer on their answer sheet. They both look over at Kyoutani for approval. As a zoology major, he’s the final authority on all things animal related.

“A cheetah can run up to 75 miles an hour in short bursts,” Kyoutani says, as if the fact is common knowledge.

Watari smiles and cocks his head. “I'm assuming that's a yes?”

Kyoutani nods.

They’re about to move on when the voice of dissent comes in the form of a whiny slur. “You guys are all wrong. It’s an ostrich.”

The three turn to look at Yahaba, and he breaks into a fit of giggles under their gaze. “Why are you all looking at me like that? I’m right.” He nuzzles his flushed face into Kyoutani’s shoulder.

Yahaba is drunk, which is unsurprising given that he’s inhaled three gin and tonics already. They’ve only been at the bar for an hour. Shirabu looks sympathetically at Kyoutani; it’s going to be a long night for him.

“Do you _really_ think it’s an ostrich, Yahaba,” Watari asks gently. _Always a diplomat_ , Shirabu thinks, but he can see that Watari is struggling to hold back a laugh.

Shirabu has never fancied himself a diplomat, so he dives in.

“Ah, Yahaba, are you that stupid? Or maybe you’ve just been drinking dumb bitch juice all night,” he mocks. He rubs his chin in feigned consideration and dons his best shit-eating grin. Yahaba’s pink cheeks darken to red, and Shirabu knows he’s achieved his objective. Drunk or sober, Yahaba is too fun to rattle.

“Hey! Don’t be fucking rude!” Yahaba pouts and wrinkles his nose in that cute, frustrated expression Shirabu secretly likes. His left arm swings to swat at Shirabu, but his move is uncoordinated, and he ends up swiping across the table, almost knocking over the group’s drinks. Watari’s libero instincts kick in fast, and he scrambles to keep their glassware upright. Kyoutani throws a glare that says “ _back down, before something gets broken_.”

“You know, no one will ever love you if you’re this mean,” Yahaba huffs.

“Well it’s good I have you then.” It’s meant to teasing, but there’s weight behind the statement, more than Shirabu would like to admit.

Yahaba seems more than satisfied with this answer and pounces from his chair to wrap his arms around him. There’s a brief struggle, but Yahaba has the size advantage and a grip like a vice. He forces their cheeks together and coos incoherent, affectionate nonsense. His hands are in Shirabu’s hair, stroking roughly, like a toddler petting a dog for the first time. Regardless, Shirabu lets Yahaba have his fun now, knowing that he’s going to be miserable later.

“Aw, what a touching moment,” Watari says, holding his phone up. “I’m sure the Seijoh group chat will love to see this. “Say hi!”

“Hi,” Yahaba screams, and Shirabu wonders what a ruptured eardrum feels like. Probably something like this. He fights his initial instinct to flip off the camera in favor of a pained smile. He won’t admit it out loud, but he’s always found it admirable that the Seijoh team communicates so regularly. While he may occasionally contact Tendou and Kawanishi, the only person he sees often enough to take note is Semi, and that's  _only_ because they attend to the same university.

 _That, and because you two_ are _close friends_ , Shirabu's mind ever so helpfully supplies.

When Yahaba grows bored tormenting him, he retreats back to Kyoutani, who is much more receptive to his affection. Watari, still filming, turns the camera on them for a brief moment before setting down his phone. Within seconds, his screen lights up several times; the video must have elicited a response from the group. Watari smiles and laughs but declines to relay any of the messages.

“Alright, it’s time to turn in your answers, please have a member of your team bring the sheet to the front.”

Watari’s head snaps up. “Oh fuck, the trivia. Has anyone been paying attention?”

“Nope,” Kyoutani says. Yahaba giggles uselessly.

They all lean over the table to eye the answer sheet. Only three of the ten blanks are filled in.

“Do we want to, uh, chance it and hope everyone is dumber than us,” Watari says.

“Wait, I have an idea.”

Shirabu watches as Kyoutani tries to sneak a glance at a neighboring table’s paper. Unfortunately, he leans too far back, almost falling out of his chair and exposing his espionage to the table. It’s a group of drunk girls, and they are _relentless_. Shirabu feels terrible, but can’t help but laugh while they give Kyoutani an earful. It’s not  _his_  fault that the guy looks like a kicked puppy when he's scolded. Kyoutani doesn’t say anything to defend himself, instead hanging his head and slumping, his ears a burning shade of red.

“Well, it’s guess game over, for us then,” Shirabu says when the tirade finally stops. Watari sighs and folds their answer sheet. Kyoutani, still sulking, says nothing. Yahaba rests his head on Kyoutani’s shoulder and rubs his back in small circles.

The table is in desperate need of a morale boost.

“Does anyone besides Yahaba want another round,” Shirabu offers.

The exasperated whine that follows is almost as satisfying as winning trivia would have been.

Almost.

✧✧✧

After trivia ends, the bar starts to get more lively. There’s music now, and people have begun to congregate on a makeshift dance floor towards the center of the room. This attracts Yahaba’s attention, and he yanks Kyoutani from the table with a shout of, “I _love_ this song!” They disappear into the growing crowd, leaving Watari and Shirabu to themselves.

Shirabu doesn't mind, he's always enjoyed Watari’s company—aside from Kyoutani, he likes him the most of Yahaba’s friends.

Watari raises his glass of scotch toward Shirabu. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Shirabu responds, clinking the glass with his beer bottle. He feels low brow compared to Watari, but he never entirely developed a taste for hard alcohol. It’s a stark contrast from Yahaba who seems to _only_ have a taste for hard alcohol.

The two sit in comfortable silence, sipping their drinks and surveying the bar. Though Shirabu doesn’t particularly enjoy going out, he does enjoy people watching, and this bar is a prime location. It's packed college students from the university Watari attends, and everyone here seems to be on their worst behavior. He watches as guy eats shit trying to hit on a disinterested girl. One minute he’s leaning against the bar, the next he’s toppled over. The girl steps over his body, not even bothering to ask if he’s ok. _What a power move_ , Shirabu thinks. _Exactly what I would have done_.

His internal monologue is interrupted by Watari’s voice.

“Yahaba was telling me that you’re planning an end-of-semester trip. Do you know where you’re going yet?”

“Oh, yeah. We’ve decided to go to San Francisco, California. Kyoutani is coming now, too.”

Watari’s eyes light up. “I’ve always wanted to go to California. How exciting for you.”

“Well, you’re welcome to come,” Shirabu says genuinely. Though he’s used to spending lots of time with Yahaba and Kyoutani in their apartment, traveling with them is a different story. When they’re in the apartment, Shirabu has a chance to escape to his room when their company becomes too much. On their trip, he won’t have that same luxury. And while he won’t admit it to their face, being around the two of them for too long makes Shirabu feel paradoxically lonely.

Watari waves his hands in front of his chest and smiles. “Ah, I wish. But I’m too broke right now to afford a trip. I’m going to have to work all summer if I want to stay in my apartment during the school year.”

Shirabu nods, and the conversation turns to classes and volleyball. Watari is the libero for his university’s team and, like Kyoutani, was recruited to play in his first year. He’s recounting a the story of his team’s most recent match when his phone lights up several times. It's obvious Watari is trying to be polite but keeps getting distracted by the screen.

“You should get that,” Shirabu says. “It looks like someone wants to talk to you.”

“Ah, sorry. Let me just take a second to respond.” Watari picks up his phone and starts tapping away. Shirabu thinks he sees a dusting of color on his face and his not-so-inner gossip wonders who he’s talking to. For a moment, he considers prying but recognizes that he doesn’t know Watari _that_ well.

Instead, he takes the opportunity to check his own texts. There’s a message from Ari, his friend from French class, as well as a couple of messages from Semi. He decides to open those first.

 **[Semi 9:45]:** How is trivia going? Have you received your MENSA invite yet?

Though he tries to keep a neutral expression, Semi’s wry humor never fails to amuse him. He unsuccessfully stifles a laugh. That grabs Watari's attention, but Shirabu keeps his eyes trained on his phone, hoping he won’t comment. Shirabu reads the next message.

 **[Semi 10:05]:** Also, do you still want to grab dinner tomorrow?

He's barely able to type a quick “yes,” before he feels a pair of sweaty arms wrap around his neck. He reflexively flips his phone over and sets it on the table just before Yahaba’s face appears next to his. From the way he reeks of alcohol, it's clear he’s had more to drink—a lot more.

Shirabu glances over at Kyoutani, but Watari is showing him something on his phone, likely the messages he just received. The smell of alcohol hits him again, and he pushes Yahaba off, not even trying to be delicate. At this point, Yahaba is too gone to fight back, so he flops into the chair next to him and sips from a glass. Shirabu yanks it away and sniffs it, but when he discovers it’s just water, he returns it with a mumbled apology.

“Shirabu, who were you texting,” Yahaba slurs, so much so that it’s hard to understand what he’s saying. “Why are you hiding your phone.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. It’s flipped.”

He inhales sharply. Apparently, Yahaba is not drunk enough to not be intrusive and, in his intoxicated state, he’s highly excitable. This makes the situation a catch-22. If Shirabu is honest, Yahaba will scream, announcing to everyone that Shirabu was texting his boyfriend, Semi. If he lies, Yahaba will scream, announcing to everyone that Shirabu is trying to hide his relationship with his boyfriend, Semi, from his _best friend_.

Semi Eita is not his boyfriend.

Despite his instincts, he chances the first option. They’re at a bar across town from their university; the chances of anyone they know being there is slim. If drunk Yahaba were to overreact, Shirabu won’t be scandalized.

“It was Semi, we have dinner plans tomorrow,” he says as calmly as possible.

In a strange, but fortuitous twist of fate, Yahaba cocks his head, as if he’s never heard the name before. His eyes are wide and glassy, and his face, once flushed pink, is now more of a pale grey. “That sounds fun.”

Yahaba’s night is officially over.

Right on cue, he stands abruptly and stumbles, knocking against the table. Kyoutani rushes to his side, supporting him with an arm around his back.

“Hey, how are you doing,” he asks, even though he knows the answer. He pushes Yahaba’s sweat-plastered bangs out of his face.

Yahaba looks at him helplessly. “I-I don’t feel well,” he mumbles.

“Do you want to go home?”

He nods and, for a split second, Shirabu thinks Yahaba might burst into tears. It wouldn’t be the first time, either. He’s a weepy drunk. Kyoutani reaches for their coats and helps Yahaba put his on, holding him steady as he fumbles to put his arms through the sleeves.

Even though Yahaba is shitfaced, and they’re in a gross college bar, the moment is tender. It leaves Shirabu with a pang of something gloomy in his chest. The moment is over in an instant though; Kyoutani is trying make a hasty exit.

“Do you want to come home with us, Shirabu? There’s only one more train after this.”

It’s almost midnight, and while Shirabu is not quite ready to go home yet, he knows that if he doesn’t make the next train, he’ll have to take a costly cab ride back.

He looks over at Watari. “Are you staying?”

Watari looks down at his drink; it’s just under halfway full. “I’ll stay until I finish this, then I’ll probably head out.”

“Decide,” Kyoutani urges, looking nervously at the now time-bomb Yahaba.

“I’ll stay for a bit. Get home safely.”

Kyoutani’s frowns but doesn’t relent. “Don’t miss the train.” 

✧✧✧

Shirabu misses the train.

To be fair, Watari and him are buried in a rousing conversation about who would win in a fight between a cheetah and an ostrich, and he can’t bear to interrupt. The apparent answer is cheetah, but Watari is doing his best for team ostrich.

The crowd starts to thin out as people move onto their next adventure. Watari takes one last sip of his drink and sets down his empty glass. He taps the table a few times and looks at the ceiling, Shirabu knows that Watari is ready to leave but is too polite broach the subject. Or so he thinks.

“Do you know how are you going to get home,” Watari asks.

Shirabu considers the question for a moment. When he decided to ignore the time, it was a choice made without really thinking. Now, he has to deal consequences, in the form of a long and pricey cab ride. Though he could spare the funds, it would mean that he would have to cut back on his other spending for a while. The idea of going without his daily coffee is painful, and he lets out a long, frustrated exhale.

Watari senses his internal struggle, and scratches at his head, apparently trying to think of a way to help. “I’d offer to let you stay at my place, but I can barely fit myself in there.”

“It’s fine, no worries,” Shirabu says. “I appreciate the thought.”

“Is there anyone else you could stay with? Do you know anyone around here?”

Shirabu wracks his brain and realizes that he does, in fact, know one person who attends the nearby university. If he remembers correctly, they live pretty close by. It’s not an ideal situation, but it’s better than shelling out for a ride home. That is, of course, if they’d be open to an overnight guest.

“Let me make a call,” Shirabu says, pulling out his phone; the bar is quiet enough now that he doesn’t even have to leave the table. He scrolls through his contacts and hovers over the name for a moment. After weighing his options one last time, he hits the “call” button.

The line rings three times before Shirabu hears an unmistakable voice.

“Shi-ra-bu, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hi, Tendou. How are you?”

“I’m doing well,” Tendou purrs. “But I know you didn’t call me at midnight to ask me that. Can I help you with _something_?”

The way he says “something” makes Shirabu grit his teeth. He wonders if he should hang up the phone now and risk walking home. The irrational part of him would instead take his chances outside than spend the evening contending with Tendou. He lets his rational side take the wheel and does his best to explain his situation. Unsurprisingly, Tendou enthusiastically agrees to allow him to stay over. Though his apartment building is only a few blocks away, Tendou insists on walking over to meet him.

“I’m so excited we’re going to have a sleepover, I’ll be there in five,” Tendou says.

“See you soon.”

Shirabu pockets his phone and looks over at Watari, who has already put on his jacket. He’s looking intently at his phone as if scrutinizing something important.

“So how are you getting home,” Shirabu asks. “Can you walk from here?”

“I’d probably take a car to get home.” Watari shifts, like he’s afraid to admit something. “But I think I’m going to go meet up a friend from one of my classes.”

Shirabu raises an eyebrow, “Oh, yeah?”

“I-it’s not what you think,” Watari stammers but his flushed face says, _it’s exactly what you think_. He drops his gaze to the ground.

Shirabu shrugs. “It doesn’t matter if it is.”

There’s a ping of a phone notification, and Watari looks down at his glowing screen. “Oh, she’s here now. Are you going to be ok waiting here until Tendou comes?”

“Of course,” Shirabu says, moving slowly to grab his sweater and jacket. “I hope you have a good night,” he adds with a cheeky smile.

“It was nice seeing you, too, Shirabu.”

✧✧✧

When Shirabu finally leaves the bar, he finds Tendou leaning against a wall outside. He’d almost look cool if he wasn’t wearing cartoon-print pajamas paired with fluffy boots. His hair is down and around his shoulders and longer than Shirabu remembers. _After all these years, Tendou is still so shameless_ , he thinks. In that same moment, it occurs to him that he’s never seen Tendou with his hair purposely styled down. It makes him look older and somehow more sophisticated.

Well, as sophisticated as one can look while wearing cartoon-print pajamas out in public.

“I didn’t mean to get you out of bed,” Shirabu says, trying to herd Tendou away from the bar’s entrance. His concern is a dodge. In reality, he’s embarrassed to be seen with him in this state. People are not subtle about staring, and Shirabu has always hated unnecessary attention.

“What do you mean ‘bed,’ these are my going out clothes,” Tendou says nonchalantly. He turns to look eyes with a guy who is openly laughing at him with his friends. The guy gives him a _what the fuck_ are you looking at glare, but it doesn’t deter Tendou. He sticks out his tongue and uses his middle finger to pull down his bottom eyelid. It’s both an immature gesture...and a challenge.

Shirabu doesn’t wait to see his victim’s reaction; he grabs Tendou’s arm and drags him down the sidewalk. “Can you behave for yourself for five fucking minutes,” he hisses.

“Hmm.” Tendou hums in fake consideration. “I don’t believe I can.”

Shirabu makes a frustrated sound and continues to yank Tendou down the sidewalk. They walk three blocks like this before Shirabu realizes he’s disoriented; he’s been to Tendou’s apartment a couple times before, but only during the daytime. At night, the streets are unfamiliar, and all the buildings look the same.

“I actually have no idea where I’m going,” he concedes.

Tendou laughs in that high, mocking way that Shirabu hates. “I was waiting to see how far you’d go, stubborn Shirabu. I’m back the other way.”

Shirabu pinches Tendou’s arm where his hand grips it, eliciting an overdramatic yelp. He shoves his hand in his pockets and turns to start fast-walking in the other direction. He hears the sound of Tendou shuffling behind him and knows he’s melodramatically dragging his feet.

“Shirabu, this is no way to treat the person opening their home to you. I should leave you out in the cold!”

He looks back with a defiant scowl. “You wouldn’t dare.”

✧✧✧

“When are you going to move to an apartment that isn’t breaking fifty code violations,” Shirabu asks. He’s toeing (read: kicking) off his shoes at the door.

“It’s a small price to pay for luxury, Shirabu. And rent is a steal.”

“It’s a steal because this place is uninhabitable.”

Tendou’s apartment is located in one of the nicer buildings in the university district, a building most students couldn’t afford to live in. However, through some process that Shirabu doesn’t care to know about, Tendou managed to snag an “unlisted apartment.” The size is on par with the other units, but it’s essentially a coffin. There are only two windows, both the size of portholes and pipes run precariously across the living room ceiling. It’s precisely the kind of place one would imagine Tendou to live: spacious, with just the right amount of constant danger.

“Go ahead, make yourself at home, we were just watching some late night TV,” Tendou says. “I’ll grab us something to drink."

 _We_? Shirabu doesn’t have enough time to process that thought when Ushijima’s head pops up from behind the headrest of a loveseat. Shirabu startles, letting out a noise that’s a cross between a cry and a hiccup. He tries to segue the sound into a coherent greeting. “U-Ushijima, hi! I didn’t know you were here.”

“Our coach gave us a weekend off, so I am spending it at home,” he says. “I hear you missed the train.”

Shirabu blushes, not missing the way Ushijima referred to Tendou’s cave-apartment as _home_. He knows the two have been dating for a while, but he was always unclear about how serious the relationship was, given that they attended different universities. Though, to be fair, Shirabu has a hard time thinking of anything Tendou does as serious.

“Yes, it looks like Shirabu missed the last train to his neck of the woods,” Tendou says, and Shirabu realizes that he never actually answered Ushijima _._

 _Well, this can’t get any more awkward than it already is_ , he assures himself and moves to sit in the living room before he melts into the floor.

“Do you want something to drink, Wakatoshi,” Tendou calls.

“I wouldn’t mind a glass of water,” Ushijima says politely. Tendou huffs. It seems this wasn’t the desired answer, but there's the sound of a cabinet opening and closing, followed by the  faucet. Tendou returns to the living room shortly after, a tray of drinks in hand. He sets it down on the center table and sits down on the couch next to Shirabu. Then, he passes Ushijima his water and offers Shirabu a small glass of amber liquid. The cup is nice to hold and gives him something to do with his hands besides paw at his thighs. He holds the glass up to nose and sniffs. It smells warm and appealing, like honey.

“What is this, you aren’t trying to poison me, right?”

Tendou dramatically clasps his hand over his heart and feigns a swoon. “It’s whiskey, Shirabu. The nerve you have to make such accusations. You wound me.”

“Shirabu, how is your third year going,” Ushijima interrupts, ignoring their repartee.

When Ushijima asks this, Shirabu looks over at him for the first time. _Really_ looks over and, to his delight and horror, discovers that he looks exactly the same as he remembers. Shirabu’s inner seventeen-year-old self drools at the image of his angled jawline, broad chest, and toned arms. Shirabu’s very present twenty-one-year-old self drools at the image of being held down by his toned arms, while he hungrily nips and licks at his angled jawline and broad chest. In his debauchery, he almost misses the window of opportunity to respond to Ushijima, again. He quenches his sudden thirst with a large gulp of whiskey, allowing the burn to serve as a punishment for his inappropriate thoughts.

“Ah, um, it’s good. I don’t know if Tendou told you, but I’m majoring in linguistics and art history.” He considers smashing the glass into his face. If he’s unconscious, he’ll stop acting like a rambling idiot.

“That sounds interesting.”

Shirabu knows his major is of absolutely no interest to Ushijima, but he appreciates that he’s trying. In the past, Ushijima would have at most offered a curt nod. He suspects that being with Tendou has improved his conversation skills.

“I always knew you were a sophisticated one, Shirabu,” Tendou says. He’s leaning forward on his hands now, looking directly at him. There’s heat behind his gaze, too, like an animal closing in on his prey. To be fair, Tendou often looks like he’s hunting, but something about this moment makes Shirabu's heart skip a beat. Maybe Tendou knows he was thinking about his boyfriend and is plotting some hideous revenge. He already lives in a coffin, it's the perfect place to stash his dead body. The room feels oppressively hot, and it’s not due to the lack of windows; Shirabu finds himself stripping off his cardigan to cool down. Tendou’s eyes follow his every move.

“Ushijima, how is your, ah, season going? I hear you’re doing well,” Shirabu asks, voice shaking.

Ushijima perks up at the mention of volleyball. But, of course, perked up is a relative term. In reality, he merely shifts so that he’s now resting his elbows on his knees, his face cupped in his hands.

“We’ve won five games and lost three, so we are doing adequate,” Ushijima corrects. He doesn’t say more on the subject. “Are you playing for your university’s team?”

“I am. I was the reserve setter my first year, but I’ve been the main setter for almost two years now.”

Shirabu thinks Ushijima’s mouth twitches, but the motion doesn’t blossom into a smile. Still, the look in his eyes is genuine...with a hint of pride?

“They made a wise decision,” he says, and Shirabu averts his gaze. The compliment, he thinks, is better than a hundred smiles.

They settle into silence, not necessarily uncomfortable, but heavy with some sort of unplaceable tension. It’s the kind of feeling Shirabu gets right before someone dumps the ball over the net or when a set bounces off his fingers wrong. Something is about to happen but, right now, he can’t place exactly what that something is. 

“Ready to go to bed, Wakatoshi,” Tendou asks, making a scene of yawning and stretching his arms over his head. He stands, and Ushijima follows behind as Tendou stoops to pick up each of their glasses. He hears indistinguishable whispering as the two stop by the kitchen before retreating back to the bedroom.

Shirabu is pulling the throw blanket off the back of the couch and fluffing the pillow when he hears the footsteps and the whispering stop. The bedroom door doesn’t open.

“Would you like to join us,” Tendou asks.

His blood goes cold, then boiling hot. _What the fuck_? His mind races a mile a minute to process Tendou’s offer. Part of him wants to believe it’s innocuous, couched in provocative phrasing to rile him up. They’ll all laugh—well, he and Tendou will laugh, and he’ll have a boring night’s sleep on the couch.

But another part, small but hopeful, wants Tendou to be serious. He decides to test the waters.

Shirabu sits up to peek over the back of the couch. “I’m fine sleeping out here, and your couch is comfortable.”

“Ah, but that’s not what I was asking,” Tendou says, wagging his index finger.

_Oh fuck._

Shirabu tries his best to keep his face neutral, but he’s sure Tendou can see his hands shaking where he grips the couch.

Tendou raises his hands over his chest and smiles. “No pressure if you’re not interested.”

Shirabu snaps his gaze over to Ushijima, who hasn’t said anything yet. There’s a question in his eyes, one he’s still too stunned to articulate. Ushijima looks over with a perfectly placid expression.

“I am amenable to whatever you choose.”

If Shirabu didn’t have a death grip on the cushion, he would have keeled over. His mouth is dry, and he can feel sweat prickling at the back of his neck. He’s grateful for the shield the couch provides because he’s fairly certain he’s at least half-hard from this conversation alone.

Shirabu knows what his answer is. His brain screamed “yes” the second the first question fell from Tendou’s lips. He waits for a moment, waiting for the analytical side of his mind to kick in, to tell him how bad of an idea this is, but it stays conveniently silent. Now, there’s only his lingering attraction to Ushijima, sudden and confusing attraction to Tendou, and penchant for making impulse decisions at 1 a.m. to guide him.

Plus, everyone else is getting laid tonight, why shouldn’t he?

Confident in his decision, he rises from the couch to meet Tendou and Ushijima at the bedroom door. Tendou snakes his arms around Shirabu almost immediately, and he feels goosebumps pricking at the contact.

“You’re certain about this,” Ushijima asks.

Tendou is kissing his neck now; he nips at his earlobe, and Shirabu doesn’t even try to stifle a whine. Ushijima watches hungrily but makes no motion to join. They’re both holding back.

Nothing starts without an answer.

“Absolutely,” Shirabu breathes.

✧✧✧

It’s past 3 a.m. and moonlight streams through the small bedroom window, illuminating the room in a way that makes it look hazy and dreamlike. It’s fitting, the events that transpired feel like a dream to Shirabu. Perhaps not the version he had been holding onto since high school, but it’s fine. The funny thing about dreams is that they’re just that—dreams. Ushijima passes out shortly after they finish, one hand still gripping Shirabu's thigh. He thinks the gesture is intended to be comforting, but Ushijima's hand feels too heavy and too warm on his skin.

“I’m sorry if you were expecting sex,” Tendou says. “But Wakatoshi and I agreed that we wouldn’t go there.”

“It’s fine,” Shirabu replies. Then, the full implication of Tendou’s statement clicks in his mind “Wait. You discussed this beforehand?”

“Duh.” Tendou turns over now so that he’s looking at Shirabu, who is still on his back. He can feel Tendou’s owlish gaze on him. “We wouldn’t have made a decision like this on the spot.”

 _You mean Ushijima wouldn’t have_ , Shirabu thinks but decides to save the inflammatory comment for another time. He doesn’t have the energy to take on Tendou right now, and he’s already feeling sleep tugging at the edges of his mind.

There’s another question there, too.

“So, you had this all planned out for tonight?” Shirabu’s tone isn’t accusatory. The answer doesn’t matter to anything except his own curiosity.

Tendou laughs. “Ah, Shirabu. How could we have? You’re the one who called me.” One of Tendou’s long fingers ghosts over his chest. “And we’re so happy you did.”

Shirabu frowns. At this point, he’s overwhelmed, both by the idea that he just had a threesome with Tendou and Ushijima and the fact that it was, to some extent, premeditated. He’s not sure what to say at this point.

“Did you have fun,” Tendou asks.

The question yanks him from his thoughts. Tendou is trying to get a pulse on how Shirabu feels, to make sure that he’s not regretting his decision. He realizes his silence might be concerning. Of course, his worries are baseless, everything that occurred over the last couple hours was _amazing_ , to say the least. Still, he chooses his next words carefully, not wanting to give Tendou too much satisfaction. He’s stroked a lot of things this evening, Tendou’s ego doesn’t have to be one of them. “I did. That was...a nice time.”

Tendou appraises him for a moment, trying to access his sincerity. “It was. Look, Wakatoshi is completely spent.” Ushijima’s hand has slipped from its spot on Shirabu’s thigh and flopped onto the bed. He’s in a deeper sleep, and his legs twitch, almost like he’s trying to move.

“I wonder if he’s dreaming,” Tendou says. He’s propped himself up on his arm to look at Ushijima lovingly. “I hope it’s a nice dream.”

Shirabu feels sour seeing Tendou’s affection for his partner. He feels no entitlement to Ushijima, but he’s used to all the attention being on him in situations like this. “He’s probably dreaming about volleyball.”

“Probably.” As if sensing Shirabu’s dejection, Tendou scoots closer. “Would you like to cuddle, Shirabu,” he asks.

“Why not?” He’s not sure why he agrees. It’s his rule of thumb is to _avoid_ cuddling after a hookup. But fooling around with two ex-teammates seems like an extraordinary circumstance. These aren’t just random people he’s met in a bar or acquaintances from class; these are people he once trusted—no, still trusts—so he flips onto his side and allows Tendou to wrap his arms around his middle. He can feel his face nuzzle into the back of his head and sighs. It’s nice to be held like this, Shirabu concedes, but it would be even nicer if it was someone else. He doesn’t sit on the thought long enough for his brain identify who such a person would be.

Instead, he turns his attention to how Tendou has curled around him. Shirabu hasn’t grown since high school, a fact he’s quite bitter about, so Tendou’s larger form consumes him, holding him flush against his chest. He feels himself getting flustered at how much he’s enjoying this, more than anything else that happened previously. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he craves this kind of intimacy. When Tendou leans in to nose at the skin at the back of his ear, he feels strangely close to tears.

“You really need this, huh,” Tendou whispers. Surprisingly, his tone isn’t teasing or mocking. Instead, he draws Shirabu even closer, as if that were even possible. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to cuddle with all the time?”

Maybe it’s the veil of secrecy that 3 a.m. holds, or perhaps it’s the fact that Shirabu feels so small in Tendou’s arms, but his emotional walls fall, just for a moment. He nods.

“Then why do you work so hard to avoid it?” Tendou knows it’s a question without an answer, at least an answer that he’s willing to give. Of course, Shirabu knows those are his favorite kind. “What you do must get awfully tiring.”

And things were going so well. Though it was inevitable that would Tendou make a comment that would get under his skin, he hoped it wouldn’t hit such a tender spot. He wants to elbow Tendou, but it’s met with the conflicting feeling of wanting to stay curled against him.

“And what is it that I _do_ ,” Shirabu says through gritted teeth. He’s trying to stay calm, but the words come out with a bite.

“Stuff like this.” Tendou loosens his grip to wave his hand to himself and Ushijima. “Not us specifically, but I’m sure you catch my meaning.”

He does. So he doesn’t try his classic move of feigned ignorance. It’s a waste of time, anyway. Tendou has a way of seeing through any façade Shirabu puts up. But he can’t answer his question either. The answer would require a harrowing journey to the center of Shirabu, and Tendou isn’t equipped to take that journey with him. No one should be subjected to that.

Shirabu is tired, so he ends the conversation by wrapping his hands around Tendou’s and hugging him closer again. For a few minutes, the two say nothing. He hopes that Tendou is going to sleep, but he can _feel_ him humming with energy. The same kind he radiates when he’s thinking hard about how to get under someone’s skin. That’s why Tendou nudges his nose against his ear again, he braces himself, inhaling sharply.

“I bet you wish I was someone else right now,” Tendou says. Though his voice is still soft, there’s a hint of a tease. “Who is it.”

Shirabu tenses, then curse himself for even responding at all. Even the slight reaction is enough to encourage him.

“Who,” Tendou presses. “You can tell me. I can keep a secret.”

“Tendou,” Shirabu warns, urging him not to force the issue. Of course, such decency is lost on him.

He persists. “Who?”

Shirabu needs to regain control of the situation before Tendou goes any further. His brain is swimming now, with the heaviness of pure exhaustion—and something else, lighter, more hollow. He uses his last shred of patience to give what he hopes is an effective shutdown.

“You’re not an owl, Tendou. Go to sleep.”

There’s a dry laugh, then silence.

✧✧✧

Usually, when Shirabu wakes up after a one night stand, the bed is empty. It’s easier that way, no morning cuddles, no pillow talk about “what comes next,” no awkwardly trying to put on clothes to escape undetected. If he’s lucky, Shirabu even gets breakfast out of the deal; those are the times he treasures the most, especially if the food is good.

So, it’s quite jarring when he wakes up to find both Ushijima and Tendou still sacked out in bed. Tendou has somehow managed to migrate over to his partner, where he lays with an arm and a leg draped over him. Ushijima isn’t holding him back, but he has a peaceful expression on his face that Shirabu didn’t see before Tendou joined him.

It occurs to Shirabu, at that moment, that Tendou and Ushijima probably love each other. They will still love each other when they wake up. That last night will be a fond memory for them, but it won’t change things. Their relationship will persist, while Shirabu’s presence in it is temporary. The thought leaves him feeling like an interloper, and he’s overcome with the urge to go home.

He puts on his clothes as silently as he can, grateful that they seem to be heavy sleepers—or are pretending not to hear him. He manages to slip out unnoticed and heads for the train station. If he hurries, he can make the first train of the day. The first train is always quiet and has some above ground tracks with a good view of the sunrise. It’s the perfect setting for thinking through life’s most terrible dilemmas, like dissecting the complicated feelings one gets when they fuck around with not one, but two of their ex-teammates, who also happen to be in a relationship.

The station is empty, and he doesn’t have to wait long for the train to arrive. As predicted, there’s no one else in his compartment, and he can stretch out and relax in a window seat. When the train rushes forward, he prepares to take in the sunrise. The view never comes.

Shirabu has taken this train at this time number of times, and he always sees the sunrise. Always. Today, the sky on the above ground tracks a greyish black with only a tease of orange, obscured by tall buildings. Before any more color appears, the train dips into the transit tunnel. Shirabu has never been one for superstition, but it somehow feels like a bad omen. His stomach churns.

He puts in headphones to quell his uneasiness, and the knots in his gut release as familiar notes begin to play. He closes his eyes. Familiar images swirl in his mind as he allows himself to replay the evening. Interestingly, his mind glosses over pretty much everything up until 3 a.m., when it was him and Tendou awake. He runs through the exchange slowly, thinking about Tendou’s intrusive comments juxtaposed against the gentleness with which he held him like he was made of glass. Shirabu had always thought himself to be wooden; so it was nice to feel delicate, fragile enough to be treated with the utmost care. People tended to be prickly or kept their distance from him, likely because they assumed that was what he wanted.

Tendou had seen through that.

When had he become so transparent? Or maybe he’d always been that way, and no one cared for what they saw inside. His thoughts sour further when he recalls the image of Tendou and Ushijima pressed together, just minutes ago. It wasn’t like he was suddenly in love with either of them (despite his previous attraction to Ushijima fueling a lot of his own passion), but it did make him realize something: he’s lonely, and he’s tired, and he’s ready to stop sneaking out of rooms to take the 6 a.m. train. There’s a tightness in the back of his throat, the kind he gets when he’s about to cry. He can’t recall the last time he cried. Because he’s become so astute at recognizing the signs, it just doesn’t happen. But, with no one around, maybe he can make an exception.

That is, until he realizes the train is slowing down. The overhead speaker chimes, and a tinny voice announces his stop. It’s the end of the line. Shirabu has always allowed himself these instances of indulgence. He’s not totally inept, some emotional release is necessary—but never more than the length of the ride home. As soon as the doors open, he casts his troubles away with the retreating form of the train in the tunnel. He doesn’t address them again. So far, it’s always been enough.

A small voice in his head warns, “ _not this time_.”

The train comes to a complete stop and the doors open. Shirabu takes a deep, cleansing breath and steps onto the platform. The doors close shut, and the train disappears back into the darkness. He’s fine, good, even. Until he feels the foreign tickle of wetness on his right cheek. Slowly, he draws a hand to his face, wiping away the traitorous tear that managed to slip out unnoticed. He looks at it for a moment on the tip of his finger, shimmering in the fluorescent light of the station. _Had things really gotten this bad_? But the issue wasn’t up for debate. He was going to emerge from the station the calm, composed self he’s come to expect, no, rely on.

Scowling, he flicks the moisture at the tracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading! As a heads up, the next chapter picks right up where chapter one leaves off. Originally, this was going to be a 13k mega-chapter, but I decided to split it up. I hope you'll consider checking it out! 
> 
> Any kind of feedback you can give means a lot to me, whether it's kudos, comments, or good cosmic energy! 
> 
> Acknowledgements: Writing a fic of this length was a team effort, so I'd like to take a moment to thank some of the folks who helped me. Your efforts and support are endlessly appreciated.
> 
> [Moons](http://moonshoney.tumblr.com): I'm not exaggerating when I say that you are the reason that this fic exists today. I was just about ready to give up when I started talking to you (and I never told you), but you reinvigorated my motivation to write on! You've stood by me through all the craziness and given me honest, helpful advice. I can't wait to see your writing when you're ready to take that step :') You know I'll do anything for you! 
> 
> [Jaila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakingincode): You were the first person I told about this fic, and I'm so happy I did. You listened to all of my sometimes manic ranting about character development and plot. Remember that worksheet you made me? That was very, very helpful. Also, you know what the original premise of this fic was supposed to be. That'll be our little secret. (Please read her Tsukkiyama if you want to feel things)
> 
> [Ax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ax100/pseuds/ax100): You were the second person I told about this fic, and you were such a sweetheart in talking me through your writing process and giving me pointers. You were always willing to cheerlead me when I got down, which I really appreciated. 
> 
> [Yvonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keishn/pseuds/keishn): I constantly barrage you with extremely basic writing questions and you never get frustrated with me :') (Please read her Band AU if you like Asanoya and bands and her Nosedive [Black Mirror] AU if you like Iwaoi and sick worldbuilding )


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! As you'll quickly discover, my chapter notes aren't that interesting. I posted this fic all at once, so I don't have much to say here. I still recommend checking the notes, though! Sometimes, I have extra information or song recommendations for specific chapters :) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

There are two glaring problems with “letting go of thoughts.” First, the thoughts never go anywhere, he just actively chooses to ignore them. Second, it’s a quick fix, like shoving a piece of gum in a cracked dam. Sure, it’ll hold for a little while, but the crack will inevitably get bigger and, eventually, it bursts. When it does, instead of a manageable trickle, he gets a flood. Shirabu knows this. It’s been his repression and denial strategy for years but, even so, it’s surprising when he already feels the cracks of his emotional walls breaking down as he walks home; the ugly thoughts from the train already seeping in again.

Normally, it takes months, even years for him to have to confront his issues. This time, it’s been less than twenty-four hours. Of course, he resists, using everything in his power to hold off the rampage as he walks through campus. He refuses to break down in public. Scratch that, he refuses to break down at all but, if it _must_ happen, it’s going to be away from prying eyes, especially those of his peers. 

By the time he gets home he’s nearly falling over himself to get into bed, but he keeps trudging on, providence in sight. To his dismay, he’s blocked by Yahaba who seems to have nested on the couch, preventing him from sneaking in unnoticed. He guards the door to Shirabu’s room like the Sphinx of Thebes, if the noble creature was a hungover college student and, instead of asking a riddle, the Sphinx asked intrusive personal questions. Shirabu surveys the scene. There’s a garbage can next to the couch—one, even in his haze, he hopes is empty, and an assortment of water, soda, and snacks strewn across the table. It appears that Yahaba has been in the living room for a while. He wonders if Yahaba was waiting for him but doesn’t stick around to find out.

As soon as Yahaba opens his mouth, he cuts him off, mumbling something to about needing to sleep, that they would talk later. He finds little resistance. Or perhaps chooses to ignore his roommate’s confused calls as he slams his door shut. Shirabu barely pauses to take off his clothes before crashing face first into bed. The room spins, and he clamps his eyes closed, body tense, waiting, no—praying, for the feeling to pass.

 _Well, what did you expect to happen_? The voice in his head taunts, making the vertigo worse.

At this point, he wonders why he hasn’t passed out or thrown up. That’s when he realizes that the spinning feeling isn’t in the room around him, it’s inside his mind. He’s caught in a whirlpool of his own dark thoughts, leaving him paralyzed. He tries to settle himself, center himself, desperate to mute the noise in his head, but it’s too much this time—a flood, not a trickle. So, he lays for a while, limbs heavy, ears roaring, until the trusted comfort of sleep comes to take it all away.

He doesn’t dream.

✧✧✧

Mercifully, the strange, overwhelming vertigo he felt before bed has all but gone when he wakes up. Unfortunately, Shirabu still feels like absolute shit. He sits up carefully, and when he finds that doing so isn’t _complete_ torture, he decides that he might as well go all the way. He stands and opens his blinds, and the room is bathed in the orange glow of late afternoon light. Shirabu snatches his phone off the nightstand and checks the time. It’s 4:30, and he’s successfully managed to sleep all day. This isn’t the first time he’s done so, but it’s never been due to a night out. It’s a fact he could brag about, until now.

Shirabu groans and presses his thumbs to his temple. He was hoping to study this afternoon. Now, the idea seems like a herculean task. Easily defeated, Shirabu decides the best course of action is to take a shower, hop into bed with a couple of movies, and try again tomorrow. The shower elevates his mood, and Shirabu feels even better when he snuggles back into his duvet. Maybe the day can be salvaged, yet.

He’s searching for a movie to play when he hears the jingle of keys, followed by the sound of the front door. There’s rustling of paper bags in the kitchen, and the sound of cabinets opening and closing. He can hear the faint sounds of Yahaba and Kyoutani talking, but he can’t decipher what they’re saying. When he hears the soft “ _wumph_ ” of a body hitting the kitchen counter, followed by a gasp, he makes the wise decision to stop trying to listen.

Silently, he prays they have plans to fuck (in their room, ideally), cook dinner, or leave. Any option works, as long as he’s left out of it. Yahaba hasn’t come to check on him since he came home, which is a surprise he is grateful for. He feels depleted, and he’s unsure whether he’s capable of surviving the detailed discussion of last night’s events that he knows Yahaba expects. Normally, they have no trouble spilling all the salacious details of their lives to each other but, right now, he isn’t in the mood to talk. Just thinking about last night sends him reeling into that whirlpool again.

The voices in the kitchen stop, only to be replaced by footsteps coming down the hall. _Fuck_. The footsteps stop right outside the door, and Shirabu hears Yahaba say something, followed by the sound of retreating steps and a door opening and shutting down the hall. Then, a knock.

He lays out his options: he can talk to Yahaba, like a mature adult, or he can pretend he isn’t there. Despite his best intentions, Shirabu finds himself frozen, his body completely still, not even daring to breathe. _I guess it’s option two, then_. He knows Yahaba has his face pressed to the door, listening closely for any sign of life. After living together for almost three years, he’s very aware of his tactics.

“I know you’re in there, at least let me know you’re alive.”

Shirabu is aware he’s being a _bit_ immature by ignoring Yahaba, but he can’t find it within himself to answer. He hears a frustrated exhale outside the door, then silence. It seems like he’s managed a victory when it happens—the miscalculation. His phone, abandoned on the nightstand, starts to ring. Shirabu forgot it was even there, with the ringer on full volume.

“You little shit,” Yahaba yells. “God, what the fuck, Shirabu.”

The familiar sounds of an impending tantrum seem to break the spell, and he finds himself in control of his body again. He pouts, _well, that’s no way to get me open up_. But he knows the game is over, so he silences his phone and reluctantly moves to stand in front of the door. His hand hovers over the handle, and he steels himself for what’s to come. Yahaba is his best friend, and they’ve been through a lot. But he’s also feeling raw and vulnerable in a way that scares him. It’s a side of him Yahaba hasn’t seen, and he’s not quite ready to show. 

“I’m worried,” Yahaba says. His voice is quiet now as if he knows Shirabu is just on the other side. “Just let me know you’re ok.”

Yahaba’s sincere tone forces him to give in. He slowly opens the door, just wide enough for him to slide through. Still, Yahaba stands sheepishly at the threshold of the door, until Shirabu gestures for him to enter.

“Close the door behind you, please,” he says, before darting back to the comfort of his bed. Yahaba shuts the door and follows. He stands in front of the bed for a moment, thinking, then, after a few seconds of consideration, slides in next to him.

“Is this ok,” he asks. “Or do you want space?”

“I don’t really mind.”

“Great, pass me some blanket.”

Despite his blue mood, Shirabu feels comfort and nostalgia laying side-by-side with his best friend. When they were freshman year roommates, they would lay just like this and talk well into the early morning. It became sort of a tradition for them, especially after nights out. They’d stumble back to their dorm room and tumble into bed (or if it was a really good night, the floor) ready to unpack the evening. However, as Kyoutani spent more and more time over, the tradition began to wane. Unsurprisingly, Kyoutani hardly values gossip and greatly values a good night sleep. Shirabu didn’t mourn their late night talks when they turned to daytime chats over coffee or a glass of wine. But he still misses them; he just wishes circumstances were better.

The sunlight peeking through the blinds begins to fade. Neither has said anything yet, but Shirabu can feel the gears turning in Yahaba’s mind. The restraint he’s showing is almost concerning. Normally, Yahaba leads with a “tell me everything,” or, if he’s feeling extra saucy, a “tell me everything, _bitch_.” Now, it’s clear that he is searching for the right words, the right questions to ask. Even if he doesn’t understand what exactly is wrong (and it’s not like Shirabu understands either), he knows there’s _something_ , and that’s enough to make him cautious.

“So, uh, how are you feeling,” Shirabu asks. He wants to cut the tension in the room; he feels bad making Yahaba sweat.

Yahaba flips from his back to face him. As he turns, Shirabu sees catches light shimmering off his silver hair. He’s always been fascinated by the almost ethereal color. In high school, Shirabu wondered if and how he dyed it.

“I’m all better,” Yahaba replies. “Honestly, I felt fine when I woke up today.”

“You got lucky. You drank a lot last night.”

Yahaba blushes and his nose wrinkles. “Yeah, I did. But Kyou took good care of me. That always helps.”

“I’m sure it does.”

Yahaba nods. “Did you know I puked on the train?”

Shirabu perks up. Now, _this_ is low hanging fruit—material he can and will taunt Yahaba with for years to come. He’d have to be on his deathbed to ignore an opportunity to harass his best friend.

“Really? God, that’s so gross, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Shirabu sees a flash of motion and feels a sharp flick against the side of his head. A classic move.

“Ow! Fuck off,” Shirabu says, rubbing at the sore spot above his ear.

“Don’t go judging me, then! It’s not like I meant to.”

“You drank a shitton of alcohol and got on a moving vehicle. And you’re telling me puking wasn’t reasonably foreseeable?”

The two scowl at each other for a moment, but the staredown doesn’t last for more than a few seconds before they burst into giggles.

“So, what did you end up doing,” Shirabu asks.

“Um, honestly, we kind of just got up and walked to another seat,” Yahaba admits.

“You what?” Shirabu snorts a dry laugh. “You’re so fucking rude!”

“Hey! It wasn’t even my idea, blame Kyoutani,” Yahaba grumbles, averting his eyes. “Besides what else were we supposed to do. It was the pretty much last train anyway. It’s not like anyone would have to deal with it.”

“I guess. Either way, I’m glad I didn’t go home with you guys. What a mess.”

Oh.

They realize at the same time that the conversation has inevitably bumped up against the topic Shirabu is trying to avoid. Yahaba shifts, propping his head up on his hands. Even in the dim light, Shirabu can see his pensive expression. Yahaba is itching to ask him questions about last night, but he’s strategizing, looking for the best way to broach the subject.

“So,” Yahaba starts slowly. “Where did you end up staying last night? Kyou waited up for you for a bit. He told me you didn’t come home.”

Shirabu runs a hand through a longer piece of his bangs, an obvious tell when he’s feeling unsure. He knows it’s not Yahaba’s intention, but he feels pretty damn cornered. He plans his next statement carefully.

“With Tendou, one of my old teammates. He lives close to where we were.”

“That’s the red-haired guy, right,” Yahaba asks. “The one with the kind of spooky affect?”

Shirabu is certain that Yahaba has met Tendou before and wonders if he is just trying to draw out the conversation for Shirabu’s sake. It’s hard for him to conceptualize that anyone who’s faced Shiratorizawa wouldn’t know him by name. He was infamous even after he graduated and probably still is now.

“I’m not sure if you’d call it spooky but, yeah. That’s him.”

Yahaba laughs gently. “Well, it’s nice you two stay in contact.”

“Ushijima was there, too,” Shirabu adds. He swears his voice wobbles, but Yahaba doesn’t appear to notice.

“Oh, are him and Tendou roommates?”

“Sort of. Well, roommates isn’t the right word. They’re dating.”

Yahaba blinks, and Shirabu can tell that he is onto something but can’t figure out what. He was almost certain that mentioning that Tendou wasn’t single would deflect him from assuming they hooked up. Now, he’s not so sure. _Stay calm_. He tells himself and channels his energy into holding his poker face. Yahaba has no choice but to ease off.

“Huh, do you think they’re happy? I couldn’t imagine being happy with Tendou.”

“I think so. They’ve been close since high school,” Shirabu says. Yahaba doesn’t press him further, and he starts to relax. It’s not like he doesn’t want to tell him what happened, he just doesn’t want to tell him _right now_.

“You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want,” Yahaba starts. “But I hope you feel like you can be truthful.”

Shirabu isn’t sure what he’s getting at, so he stares intently at Yahaba, urging him to elaborate.

“Nothing bad happened last night, right,” Yahaba continues. “I’m not even sure what I mean by that, you’ve just been in your room all day, and normally you want to talk after we go out and—”

Shirabu jumps in to cut Yahaba off. This is one train of thought he needs to stop at the station. “No, nothing bad. I’m just tired, we were up late catching up,” he says reassuringly as he can. “Though, I appreciate you worrying about me.”

It’s not a lie. No matter how distant Shirabu likes to think he is; he can’t deny it feels good to have someone care about him.

“Of course,” Yahaba says. There’s a look of sincerity in his eyes that only he can give. “You’re my best friend. I’ll always worry about you.”

Shirabu isn’t quite sure what to say, so he reaches out to clasp Yahaba’s hand and squeezes. Though he’s not facing him anymore, he can tell Yahaba is smiling and feels him squeeze back. Shirabu closes his eyes and settles into the moment. The room is dark, and the only sound he hears is Yahaba’s even breathing. For the first time since last night, he feels at peace. That is, until his phone bleats, causing them to jump. Shirabu whines and detaches their hands to retrieve to his wretched device from the nightstand.

Shirabu has a message, and the message is from Semi. His stomach drops as he remembers their dinner plans...at 6:00. It’s 5:30 now. Shirabu opens the text. The light from his phone stings his eyes, and he has to squint to read it.

 **Semi 5:30** : Meet at the new place, a block off campus.

It’s a statement, not a question. Typical. The phone bleats again.

 **Semi 5:31** : You better not be late.

At this point, Yahaba is sitting up, stretching his arms over his head. He fumbles at the chain on Shirabu’s bedside lamp.

“Who is that,” Yahaba asks, unsuccessfully fighting back a yawn.

“It’s Semi. We had plans tonight, I completely forgot.”

Yahaba taps a finger on his chin. “Oh right, you mentioned that last night.”

Shirabu grimaces. “You were wasted, and you remembered my plans. God, I’m an awful person.”

“I won’t dispute that,” Yahaba teases, poking Shirabu in the chest.

He grabs the offending finger. “Keep this to yourself, or I’ll fucking break it.” Yahaba, immune to threats, simply sticks his tongue out, then leans back to rest against the wall. 

“Ugh, I can’t go out like this.” Shirabu frames his hands around his face to punctuate his complaint. He doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know that he looks like absolute garbage. “I should just cancel.”

“No!” Yahaba snaps, a little too fast. Shirabu stares at him quizzically, eyebrow raised.

“I mean, yeah. Maybe you look a little rough. But it’s nothing Semi hasn’t seen before. Plus, you can’t just cancel on someone last minute. That’s so rude.”

Shirabu smirks. “More rude than puking on the train and walking away?”

“Fine, touché. But I still think it might be good for you to get out of the apartment.”

“Why, so you can finish what you and Kyoutani started in the kitchen?”

Yahaba glares, but there’s a hint of color on his cheeks. “You like spending time with Semi, too, right? Maybe that will cheer you up.”

“Eh?”

“Well, the of you have been friends since high school, right? So, I assume you must at least tolerate him. You two hang out pretty often.”

Yahaba is half-right. Semi and Shirabu were something resembling friends in high school, but their relationship was always marred by the tension of Shirabu taking his spot as main setter. Semi started to confide in him as it got closer to graduation, and they did keep in touch during his first year of university. It wasn’t until Shirabu found out that he would be attending the same university, that their friendship began to bloom. When they met again, his captaincy had matured him, and Semi’s temper had settled. It turned out that if they didn’t constantly bicker, they enjoyed each other’s company. He’s not going to admit that to Yahaba, though. There’s something about their relationship he likes to keep more—private.

“Like once a week, maybe not even that. Tolerate is a good way of putting it.” Shirabu rolls his eyes. “We’re friends because we’re the only two people from Shiratorizawa here.”

Yahaba snorts and the look in his eye that says, “ _we’ll see_.” But he chooses to ignore it. Yahaba possesses similar inhuman powers of observation to his predecessor, Oikawa. If you give him anything, you give him everything.

“Ok, let’s get ready. Stand up,” Yahaba instructs and claps aggressively at Shirabu until he rises to his feet.

“It’s 5:40,” Shirabu whines. “I’d have to leave now to be on time, and I don’t even know where this place is.”

“Well, what did Semi tell you?”

“Hold on.” He opens his texts again. “It’s the new place a block off campus? But I didn’t even know a new place opened up.”

“Oh,” Yahaba says. “I passed it on the way home. It looked like some sort of theme restaurant. American food, I think. That’s an interesting choice.”

“Well, Semi is an interesting person,” Shirabu says wryly. He’s digging through his closet, but none of his clothes appeal to him right now. He doesn’t know why he’s being so particular, Semi has seen him in every possible state of dress, yet half his closet lays rejected on the floor.

“God, Shirabu. Just pick something and go, Maps says it’s a 13-minute walk.”

Exasperated, Shirabu throws on a fluffy, oversized sweater and jeans. If he can’t be cute, he can at least be comfortable. He looks at himself in the mirror; his hair is a mess, and his face looks as ghastly as he predicted—the circles under his eyes are so dark, they almost look drawn on. He can fix one of those things. So, he grabs a hat on the way out.

“You look so precious, like a little marshmallow,” Yahaba coos as he shoves Shirabu out the door. “Have fun!”

He sighs.

 _You work with what you have. Plus, either way, it can’t be worse than what Semi’s wearing_.

✧✧✧

He’s not wrong. When he arrives at the restaurant, he finds Semi sitting on a bench outside. He’s wearing his Shiratorizawa plaid uniform pants, a black coat, and a deep frown. Shirabu ignores the frown and goes straight for the pants.

“God Semi, why do you still have those. How do they even still fit—”

Semi cuts him off. “You’re late.”

_Fuck, he’s actually mad._

“I mean, only by like, five minutes,” Shirabu replies innocently, batting his eyelashes.

“If by ‘like five minutes’ you mean eighteen minutes. Then yes, you were five minutes late,” Semi huffs. His eyes are still narrowed, but his voice has less of an edge. Semi is always weak for Bambi eyes.

“At least I’m kind enough to grace you with my presence.”

“Don’t act like that’s such an honor.”

Well, shit. Shirabu doesn’t seem to have a comeback for that. He pouts and kicks at a rock on the ground.

“Well, anyway, we lost our spot,” Semi says.

 _Oops_. Shirabu genuinely feels bad and understands why Semi had specifically indicated not to be late. He needs to apologize, but apologies aren’t his strong point.

“I don’t understand why we’d need a reservation for, uh, this place,” he says, gesturing at the restaurant. It’s retro, made to look like a 50’s style diner. To him, it’s kitsch, but to the rest of his classmates, it’s apparently the newest hangout spot. There’s a large huddle of students outside the door. 

“Well excuse me for trying to plan an exciting night,” Semi says, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression looks...hurt.

Shirabu feels guilty. He can’t meet Semi’s eyes. “Ok, look I’m sorry. To be honest, it’s been a weird day. I almost cancelled.”

“Wait, hold that thought,” Semi says, before disappearing back into the restaurant. Shirabu is planning the earful he’s going to give him for walking away during _his apology_ , when he emerges again, juggling a paper bag and two cups.

He can smell something fried, and the thought occurs to him that he hasn’t eaten today. Actually, he hasn’t eaten anything since the early dinner he had yesterday. He’s starving.

Semi gestures one of the cups at him. “Here, it’s a vanilla shake. A boring flavor for a boring person.”

Instead of feeling irked by Semi’s chide, he analyzes the gesture. Vanilla is his favorite flavor. Though he’s not sure if or how Semi knows that. Maybe it’s just a lucky guess, or maybe Semi thought vanilla was a safe, palatable choice. But a memory floats to the surface. They’re back in high school, getting ice cream after practice on a particularly hot day. He ordered vanilla, and Semi ordered green tea.

As they ate their treat, Semi told him that he wouldn’t be playing volleyball in college. It was a choice he knew was coming, but it still stung. Semi cried on his shoulder which, at the time, was very jarring. Then, he made Shirabu promise never to tell anyone. He’s sure it’s just a coincidence, but the thought of Semi remembering his preference makes his stomach flip. 

Shirabu distracts himself by tasting the shake. It’s perfectly creamy and not too sweet. “It’s delicious. Thank you,” he says gratefully.

Semi smiles. Though he’s most known for scowling, he makes up for it with a pleasant smile. It’s just a touch crooked, but it’s always genuine and warm. “You’re welcome. I heard the food here is really good. That’s how it got so popular. I figured we should at least get a chance to try it.”

Shirabu nods, he’s engrossed with his shake and curious about what’s in the bag.

Semi must notice his staring, “I have some fries in here, but we’ll need to find somewhere to eat them.” Shirabu’s stomach grumbles, and he considers suggesting that they just drop their things and eat on the ground.

However, at this point, the sun has set, and while there’s a hint of its warmth still in the air now, He knows it will be gone soon. The nights are getting colder, and the temperatures have been unseasonably chilly.

“Would you want to go to your apartment?”

✧✧✧

Semi’s apartment is spartan, which clashes with his preference to maintain (what Shirabu considers) an outlandish appearance and dress. There isn’t any particular theme or color scheme, and there’s only the necessary furniture: a couch, a chair, tv console, and a small dining room set. The only decorations of note are a record player in the corner, and a large painting of an antique ship, sailing on a stormy sea, hanging just off-center above the couch. It’s not attractive, but Shirabu likes to look at it when he takes off his shoes. He asked about the painting the first time he came over, and Semi told him that he had been inexplicably drawn to it when he shopping in a flea market.

_“Interior design is all about trusting your instincts, curating a space that feels best for you,” Semi said, lifting his index finger as if delivering a sacred maxim._

_“Ugh, tell your instincts they have terrible taste.”_

He grabs a seat at the dining room table while Semi grabs a plate from the kitchen. He tries to contain his excitement as Semi pours the bag of fries onto the plate. They smell heavenly, even though he can’t say he’s a huge fan of fried food. At this point, though, he’d probably eat a fried stick of butter if it was offered to him. After a few agonizing seconds, he grabs a handful, ignoring Semi’s amused glance.

“You know, if you’re that hungry, I can make you something else,” he offers.

Shirabu tries to speak, then realizes he has a mouth full of potato. He waits until he finishes his bite. “Thanks, but this is fine.” He grabs another handful, while Semi picks at the fries one at a time, letting Shirabu eat his fill. If this were anyone but Semi, he’d be embarrassed. But he’s seen just about everything from Shirabu at this point, and vice versa. He continues wolfing them down until he finishes the entire plate.

“What did you get to drink,” Shirabu asks, pointing at Semi’s cup.

“What, you’re going after my shake now?”

Shirabu glares, and he’s sure his cheeks turn pink. “N-no, I’m just curious.”

“I’m kidding,” Semi assures. “Besides, this is chocolate. You wouldn’t like it.” Shirabu stomach is about to flip again until he remembers that him not liking chocolate is a well-known, frequently made fun of trait. The whole team used to taunt him for his dislike of sweets.

When they both finish, Shirabu offers to take the plate and cups to the kitchen. It’s the least he can do after Semi bought him his first meal of the day.

He calls to Semi over the faucet. “How are classes? Is English going better?”

“I guess they’re all going pretty good, but English is still really hard. My Professor says I’m improving though. I think it’s from all the times you’ve practiced with me.”

He sets the plate on the drying rack and rejoins Semi at the table. “You’re basically fluent in English at this point. You’re in an advanced language and literature class.”

Semi looks flattered and rakes a hand through his two-toned hair. He doesn’t get to hear compliments from Shirabu often. “I still think you’re better than I am.”

He likes how Semi looks when he’s happy, so he decides to spare him the haughty comment that popped into his head. “That’s just because I’ve been practicing since I was in primary school. You’ll get there.”

“So, how are classes going for you? Did you finish that art history paper?”

Before he can answer, Shirabu feels his phone vibrate under the table. He knows it’s rude, but he looks down at his phone anyway. The notification is from Tendou. He feels a prickle of dread in pit of his stomach but does his best to dismiss it. He hits the “open” button.

 **Tendou 7:06** : I hope you’re having a good time with Semi ;3

He regrets the decision. If this were anyone but Tendou, the text would be innocent. However, Shirabu knows it’s laced with some sort of poisonous subtext. Semi must know about last night. That must be what Tendou is teasing at. He needs to strategize. He needs to keep his cool. He needs to—

“Who was that,” Semi asks. “Is everything ok, you look distressed?”

“Yes,” Shirabu says. His voice remains deceptively calm. “That was just Tendou bothering me.”

Semi nods, and Shirabu relaxes. Maybe he’s off the hook.

“I heard you hung out with him and Ushijima last night,” Semi says.

Or not.

He chooses his next words carefully.

“Why does that sound like an accusation, Semi,” Shirabu warns, not trying to hide the bite in his voice. He figures going on the offensive will force Semi’s to back down. He really doesn’t want to be having this conversation. Not with Semi. They were having such a nice time.

“It’s not an accusation at all,” Semi sputters. He collects himself. “I’m just asking as a friend.”

“Then, as a friend, butt the fuck out.”

Semi’s brows furrow and the two lock eyes. Now it’s a showdown. Shirabu didn’t come into tonight expecting a fight, but if Semi wants one, he’s game. He has some frustration he’s ready to expend, and he can’t remember the last time they had a real fight.

“I don’t see why you’re being so touchy, it’s an innocent fucking question,” Semi says, voice steadily getting louder.

“It’s not an innocent question when you’re seeking a specific answer,” Shirabu hisses.

“Ok, I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about. But I’m not going to argue with you right now.”

It’s too late for that. Shirabu isn’t ready to back off, and the thrill of tussling with Semi has given him the courage to say what he says next.

“Did Tendou tell you?”

Semi, unlike Shirabu, doesn’t have a good poker face, and he immediately know the answer. Semi’s gaze drops to his lap, and Shirabu can tell he’s fiddling with his hands.

“Yes,” he admits, after a long exhale. He doesn’t make eye contact.

Shirabu groans and hides his face in his hands. In the grand scheme, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Tendou told Semi. The two had always been close friends. If someone had to know, Semi wasn’t the worst choice, unless this information made Semi think differently of him. Shirabu doesn’t like to admit that, after Yahaba, he considers Semi is his closest friend. The thought of that being compromised is a bitter pill.

There’s a long silence as the two figure out how to proceed. Shirabu is the first to speak.

“I didn’t sleep with them, you know.” He mentally slaps himself. What the fuck is he saying that for?

Semi cocks his head. “I know. But that doesn’t matter to me, you know I wouldn’t judge you even if you had.”

This response is frazzling. On one hand, it’s a nice sentiment, on the other, Shirabu finds some part of him wishing that Semi _did_ care.

“W-well, I just wanted to make that clear. They didn’t want to…I—we just,” Shirabu clamps his mouth shut. He’s rambling, and he doesn’t know why. Actually, he does. He wants to talk about last night with Semi, to explain things. To explain that it was just a bizarre, one-time encounter, that it meant nothing. That nothing he does ever means anything, yet he does finds himself in the same situations, over and over, his habits more repetitive than the broken disc collecting dust on Semi’s record player.

“Look, I didn’t mean to get you wound up,” Semi says soothingly. “I just thought it might be less awkward if I told you that I know. That way it’s not just up in the air.”

Shirabu knows that Semi is right. It’s a logical decision. But he’s still irritated; he wanted to discuss things on his own terms, rather than being boxed into a conversation.

“I’m really sorry, honestly. I shouldn’t have brought this up.”

Shirabu lets out a long sigh, and his shoulders drop. For the second time today, he’s cornered, but this time, opening up is the only way out.

“I guess maybe I do need to talk.”

“I’m listening.”

The two move to the couch and Shirabu tells Semi about the night, sparing him some of the more _personal_ details. Semi seems to be a good sport, but Shirabu senses strange energy. Semi seems tightly wound, his back too straight, his shoulders too tight, and his mouth occasionally twitches down, like he’s suppressing a frown.

“So anyway,” Shirabu has finished recounting what he is comfortable sharing and wants to move on. “I’ve just been feeling weird all day.”

“Weird how?” Shirabu notices Semi’s body language start to change as he says this. His face softens and he’s leaning forward, as his answer to this next question is of the utmost importance.

“Do you ever feel like your mind’s a flood?”

Semi tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Like it’s is just too full of thoughts and doubts and memories. It’s stifling, and it feels like I’m drowning.” Shirabu blushes, trailing off, he knows he sounds crazy, comparing his mental state to water. Then again, Shirabu can’t be too hard on himself; abstraction is not his forte. “I’m feeling a little better right now, though.” 

Semi smiles, and Shirabu senses he doesn’t quite understand what he means. It’s entirely valid, Shirabu doesn’t understand what he means, either.

Of course, Semi is full of surprises. 

“Well, my advice for dealing with a flood is: instead of fighting it, learn to swim in it,” he says easily. “You spend a lot of time building walls, but sometimes it’s easier to just let things flow as they will. Sure, it may not always feel good, but I promise you won’t drown. You’re stronger than that.”

Shirabu tucks his knees to his chest. Shirabu doesn’t have to be a poet to understand Semi’s sentiment, and he knows he’s right. Still, he feels powerless to do anything. Sensing his distress, Semi lifts his hand, hovering it for a moment like he’s about to reach out, but it drops to rest on his thigh, replaced by words instead.

“I think maybe you should talk to Tendou.”

“What?”

“I feel like confronting the source of the issue might make it easier for you to find closure.”

Shirabu narrows his eyes. “I never said Tendou was the problem.”

“I’ve been friends with Tendou for a long time, and I know he can’t resist toying with people. It’s in his nature. He’s the kind of person who could compliment you and weeks later, you realize that he was prodding your biggest insecurity.”

Shirabu thinks back to what Tendou said when it was just the two of them awake. He can practically hear Tendou whispering in his ear, _“Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to hold you all the time...What you do must get awfully tiring.”_   He had sounded so sincere then, was he just digging the knife he already had in his side? If it’s true, he is going to feel hideously duped.

“Maybe you’re right.” His head once again sinks behind his knees.

“Just, give it some thought,” Semi says gently. “If Tendou got you into this weird headspace, maybe he can get you back out. He gives out pretty sage advice if you’re willing to listen.”

Shirabu highly doubts that but doesn’t comment. There’s nowhere else for this conversation to go, and weight of it leaves him feeling exhausted. He looks over at Semi, who’s leaning against the side of the couch, his face unreadable. Shirabu feels a pang of guilt for confiding in him; he’s sure it was awkward to hear that three of his friends hooked up, even if he wasn’t privy to all the intimate details.

“Do you want me to go,” Shirabu says.

“Do you want to go,” Semi parrots. He recognizes that Semi is giving him an out if he wants to escape. He doesn’t. It’s not that he wants to stay with Semi, he just isn’t ready to go home. Or, at least that’s what he tells himself.

“Not really.”

Semi reaches remote on the table in front of the couch.

“How about we watch something, that always helps me wind down.”

“That sounds nice.”

Semi turns on a movie. It’s some buddy comedy, Shirabu’s least favorite genre, which makes it easy for him to tune it out. He’s thankful for the way Semi dims the lights and the fact that he doesn’t comment when he spends most of the time curled up on his side, not even facing the screen. The room is warm, and the couch has just the right amount of squish. At some point, the exhaustion becomes too much he dozes off. When he wakes up again, an entirely different movie is playing.

Shirabu yawns and looks at his phone. He’s surprised to find it’s 11:00, which means he’s slept for almost three hours. 

“Hey there, how are you doing,” Semi asks.

“I’m tired,” he says, his voice heavy with sleep.

Semi’s mouth twists into a grin. “I can see that, Captain Obvious.”

Shirabu shakes his head a few times and smooths out his bangs. “Hey, I didn’t sleep very well last night.” His voice softens. “I think I’ll sleep better tonight, though. Talking helped. Thank you for listening.”

Semi hums in understanding. “I’m feeling kind of awake, can I walk home with you?”

“Alright.”

It takes a few minutes and a lot coaxing to get Shirabu off the couch. He’s reluctant to leave the warmth of the apartment. In fact, it’s only after Semi offers to let him stay over that he finally moves to put on his shoes and coat. He knows it will probably be quite cold at this hour, but he can’t bring himself to accept the offer, either. Something about it just seems too far out of the bounds of their current relationship.

It’s a cloudless night, and the moon hangs low over the trees. Clear nights always seem to be the chilliest. A light breeze blows and he shivers, cursing himself for not wearing something more substantial. He didn’t expect to be out this late. He also didn’t have time to carefully plan out a weather appropriate outfit before Yahaba ushered him out the door. He notices Semi watching him shake.

“Do you want my scarf, you look cold,” Semi asks, gesturing at the cream-colored cable-knit scarf around his neck.

Without his consent, a blush creeps up Shirabu’s neck, and he prays that the low light obscures the color. “Uh sure, thanks.”

He isn’t prepared when Semi removes the scarf and drapes it gingerly around his shoulders. It’s warm from being worn and instantly comforting.

“You’ll want to wrap it around again,” Semi explains, “To keep your neck nice and toasty.”

“I know how to wear a scarf, Semi.”

Semi huffs but doesn’t try to bicker. The rest of the walk home is filled with light, inconsequential conversation. Shirabu teases Semi about his interesting choice in pants once more. He’s surprised his uniform still fits, and even more surprised that he hasn’t seen it make an appearance once in their three years of being in college together.

The conversation leads to them thinking about Shiratorizawa, about old times. They’re reminiscing, laughing about the antics of their eclectic team. The memories feel familiar and good. Being with Semi feels familiar and good. He squashes this feeling down. Hard. 

Before long they’re standing outside of Shirabu’s apartment, and a small part of him wants to invite Semi in—to talk more, just to talk.

“Will you be ok getting home by yourself,” he asks. “It’s kind of late.”

“Not even, it’s 11:20, you loser,” Semi says with a wink. “But you can walk me home if you want.”

Shirabu laughs. “But then you’d have to walk me back again.”

Semi rolls his eyes. “Goodnight, Shirabu.”

“Text me when you get home, so I know you made it.”

Semi assures him that he will and retreats into the night. As Semi disappears, he feels a touch of vertigo, not as strong as the what he felt that morning, but unsettling in its own right. He shivers again and instinctively clutches at his scarf. Wait, no, not his scarf—Semi’s scarf. He considers about calling out, but he’s too far away. He pulls out his phone.

 **Me 10:19** : You forgot your scarf. I can drop it by your apartment tomorrow.

 **Semi 10:19** : Keep it for a while, it looks better on you anyway.

Shirabu runs his fingers over the fabric, admiring how it feels in his hands. Absentmindedly, he finds himself running the loose ends of the scarf over his cheeks. He’s not sure where the thought comes from, but he allows himself to imagine what it would feel like for someone to graze his hands over his face like that. Somehow, it’s both pleasant and grounding, enough so that he realizes he’s standing in the middle of a campus walkway, caressing himself with Semi’s scarf. He freezes, darting his eyes back and forth like a deer in headlights. No one is outside, but he’s still mortified.

He hurries into his building.

✧✧✧

As soon as he’s back in his room, Shirabu types a message to Tendou.

 **Me 11:26:** Why did you tell Semi about last night? I’m not mad, just curious.

The response comes almost immediately.

 **Tendou 11:26** : He’s my friend, I tell him everything :3

He frowns, he knows that’s a lie, or, at the very least, not the whole truth.

 **Me 11:27** : I don’t buy it.

He watches his phone, but it remains silent. _A watched pot_ , he thinks and decides to get ready for bed. When he returns, there’s a response.

 **Tendou 11:34** : If you must know, I’m exploring a theory I have about Semi. Enjoy ;)

 _A theory? Enjoy?_ Irritated, he starts to type a message asking what the fuck he’s talking about but remembers he isn’t dealing with a rational person, this is Tendou. Trying to reason with Tendou is as productive as trying fill the ocean with an eyedropper. He decides to drop the issue, remembering the advice Semi gave him.

 **Me 11:36** : Are you free at all this week?

 **Tendou 11:37** : I can always make time for you, Shirabu.

Shirabu scowls at his phone but grudgingly types a response.

 **Me 11:38** : Let’s grab coffee on Friday. 2pm. Somewhere near your place.

 **Tendou 11:40** : It’s a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for sticking with it, and I hope to see you in the next chapter! Things start to pick up in chapter 3. Well, sort of. I'd love to hear your initial thoughts, so if you have a second, please leave a comment, kudo, or good cosmic energy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, thank you! I hope you're enjoying so far :)

Shirabu groans as the light tapping on the metal awning increases to a deafening pound. Though he’s standing in the protective overhang of his apartment building’s landing, he can still feel raindrops ricocheting off the metal sheeting of the roof. It’s an inconvenience he has to accept, given that he’s electing to stand outside rather than the warmth of the building’s lobby. To be fair, the lobby smells like wet dog, and the building doesn’t even allow pets. He much prefers the fresh, clean smell of the rain, even if it means a little collateral moisture.

He groans again, louder this time, just for good measure. Though he’s not entirely sure why, he woke up in a foul mood and, as luck would have it, it’s the day he’s supposed to meet Tendou. The rain has only served to make him increasingly sour. He enjoys the stormy weather, as long as he’s not travelling in it. As a creature of some (read: considerable) vanity, he prefers to avoid prolonged contact with rain, or any wet weather for that matter, when he’s on his way to meet someone. If he’s not diligent about staying dry, he can resemble a wet, angry cat. Not that he cares about looking good for Tendou in any way, shape, or form—no—it’s an issue of personal pride. He’s put a lot of effort into cultivating an image for himself, and there are very few people who are permitted to see him looking less than put-together. Shockingly, Tendou is not in that number.

The train station is a 15-minute walk from the apartment building, and he momentarily considers calling for a car. His rational mind steps in to nip that idea in the bud; he can’t reconcile asking someone to drive him five short blocks to the station. It’s not even raining that hard anymore, he observes. At this point, it’s tapered down to more of a light mist than a deluge. Sighing, he zips up his jacket, pulls up his hood, and ventures out from the shelter of the landing. If he gets pneumonia, he’ll forward all his medical bills to Tendou.

Once he successfully reaches the train station, he checks his phone to look up the address Tendou sent. It would behoove him to know which stop to get off on before he boards the train, as he never seems to get service in the underground transit tunnels. When he brings up the address on Maps, he’s confused to see that the directions take him to a stop that he’s never even heard of. Based on the picture, it looks like the café is inside the train station. He scrunches his face at the discovery. Maybe it’s just a mistake. What kind of person would want to hang out at a train station? _Tendou_ , his mind supplies, _Tendou would want to do that_.

A bell chimes overhead, signaling the arrival of the next train. It would be more prudent to make the train than ruminate and miss it, so he rushes through the station and slides through the doors, just as they close for a final time. The ride over is awful. When it rains, the train becomes a muggy mess. It’s midday, so the compartment is full, and Shirabu is forced to stand until the end of the first stop. The windows are completely fogged, and the humidity is oppressive, making him feel like he’s in the world’s most disgusting sauna. It’s nauseating. His stomach has already been roiling with unplaceable anxiety all morning, and the noise and crowdedness are doing nothing to help with his uneasiness. He taps his foot on the ground so loudly that a man looks up from his newspaper to glare at him. He glares back. The asshole is wearing headphones anyway, Shirabu’s noise shouldn’t be a bother to him.

He’s unsure why he’s feeling so damn nervous to meet Tendou. At first, he assumed it had to do with the fact that he’d been intimate with him just over a week ago. Tendou is his old teammate and, as much as it pains him to admit, a friend. It would be natural for there to be a little awkwardness. But that wasn’t it. The root of his anxiety is something less tangible. Tendou is perceptive, almost wickedly so, and that fact puts Shirabu on edge. Sometimes, talking to him is like looking into a brutally honest mirror. You won’t always like what you see, but it’s you nonetheless. Maybe Semi is right, and this is what he needs to move forward. Or perhaps, more likely than not, he’ll end up discovering that the cure is worse than the disease.

Either way, he’s about to find out because the train is slowing to a stop, and the announcer indicates that they’ve arrived at the correct station. As the doors slide open, he braces himself to be accosted by Tendou, but he’s nowhere to be seen. In fact, there’s no one on the platform at all, save for an elderly woman knitting on one of the metal benches. He steps out onto the tiled floor, and his footsteps echo. No one else gets off the train with him. _Strange_ , he thinks, given that the car he was just in was full. An inexplicable shiver runs up his spine. There's nothing outright creepy about the station, save for his solitude. Perhaps he's been watching too many of those zombie movies Semi is so fond of.

“Shirabuu~ Up here,” comes a voice from above. “I was wondering how long you were going to stand down there.”

Shirabu gazes up to see Tendou standing at the top of the escalator, next to a balcony overlooking the platform below. Heat rises to his face; he was so preoccupied with the space around him that he forgot to look up. He’s miffed, but not surprised, that Tendou didn’t call to him when he got off the train. Tendou likely got a kick out of watching Shirabu fumble around like an idiot.

So, he retaliates by denying him what Tendou most wants: instant attention. He refuses to greet him and refuses to climb the escalator stairs. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting to be deposited on the second floor. Tendou is obviously impatient, shifting from foot to foot, with enough excited energy radiating off of him to power a small city. Tendou operates on his own internal time and doesn’t enjoy being made to wait, even the short escalator ride up is enough to be irritating. Shirabu leans against the handrail, unmoved, a smug expression on his face. It’s a petty game, but the kind he is always open to playing, especially with such a reactive opponent.

When he finally reaches the top, Tendou descends on him. “Shirabu, mean! This is no way to greet your close friend and mentor.” He pauses, and there’s a dangerous flash gleam in his eye that makes Shirabu reflexively tense up. “And former lover.”

He just about loses it right then and there. It would be within his character to turn around and hop back on the next train. The only thing keeping him planted in the moment is his strange desire to see things out...for Semi. He settles with a swift chop to Tendou’s side that leaves him doubled over and whining. The melodrama is hardly moving, even if it’s possible he _might_ have hit with some force. For the record, Tendou deserved it.

Shirabu sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you ok?”

“No,” Tendou cries, still holding his side and pouting.  

“Ugh, you’re ok.” There isn’t an eye roll emphatic enough to convey Shirabu’s sentiment.

In all seriousness, Tendou’s off-the-wall comment does alert Shirabu to the fact that things have changed between them. Tendou is perceptive but not a mind reader. If he has new expectations for their relationship, it’ll be more productive in the long run to articulate them, rather than getting mad over and over when they aren’t met.

One thing comes to mind right off the bat.

“This is a ground rule starting now. If you’re going to hold what happened over my head or taunt me with it again, I’m leaving.” Shirabu says. His voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge to it, a warning. “Am I clear?”

“Crystal.” His expression reads as genuine which, to Tendou’s credit, isn’t too surprising. For all the flak Shirabu likes to give him, he’s always respectful of boundaries, especially when it comes to serious matters. “But remember, you’re the one who wanted to meet in the first place.”

“Yeah, about that.” Shirabu’s phone vibrates, but he doesn’t have to check it to know what it’s about. It’s a calendar alert for afternoon volleyball practice. “Can we grab coffee now? I need to be back on campus by 4:30.”

Tendou sticks out his hand, gesturing for him to follow.

“Of course, who am I to hold up the team’s star setter.”

✧✧✧

It turns out that the small café is much nicer than Shirabu had imagined, like a bright spot in the dismal station. The decor is tasteful but modern, and there’s the pleasant smell of something baking. After ordering some drinks, they choose a booth in the back, tucked away from the prying eyes and ears of the lunch crowd. It’s unclear whether their upcoming conversation is appropriate for discussion at 2 p.m. in a cafe that appears to be frequented by businesspeople.

“So,” Shirabu starts, stirring his coffee. He drinks it black, but the motion is soothing. “How did you find this place? It’s really nice.”

He watches in horror as Tendou casually spoons sugar into his hot chocolate. “Mmmmm, I don’t remember. I think it was back when I was looking at universities. I was touring one around here.”

“Oh. I didn’t know there was one around here.”

“There is, but it’s tiny.”

“Ah.”

The floor begins to rumble and shake, rattling the glasses on the table. Shirabu is grateful he took a few drinks from his cup before this happened, his topped off mug would not have survived this jostling. Tendou seems unfazed by the disruption.

“It’s just the train, it’ll pass,” he explains. “But this will happen again in 15 minutes or so.”

Ok, so maybe the location isn’t as idyllic as Shirabu previously thought. It’s a small consolation that they can only feel the train, rather than hear it, too. Even so, he doesn’t want to have to guard his drink every 15 minutes. It’s extra incentive to make the meeting as quick as possible— tactfully short.

“How is your final semester going,” Shirabu asks. It’s strange that they find themselves in this position again, Tendou about to graduate and him just one year behind. Time seems to slip by when you see someone only a couple of times a year. Still, it’s impressive, if someone had told high school Shirabu that Tendou would be one of the people he stayed in contact with, he probably would have tried to put more effort into making friends. At the very least, it’s not Goshiki.

Tendou makes a contemplative noise and takes a sip of his now sugar-chocolate slurry. “It’s good. Actually, better than good. A TV studio took an interest in one of my screenplays. So we’re in talks.”

Color Shirabu impressed. Tendou had started university as a studio arts major but changed paths when he realized that he lacked artistic talent. What he did have, as pointed out by a professor, was a mind for creating brilliant storylines. By the end of his first year, he was thriving as a writing major. Apparently, his success had only grown.

“That’s great. Congratulations,” he says genuinely.

Tendou waves his hands in a gesture meant to minimize his prior statement. “Well now, it’s all preliminary. Producers are...fickle.”

“Well, you should stay optimistic. From what I know, you’re very talented.”

Tendou cocks an eyebrow. “Optimistic, eh? An interesting suggestion coming from ‘Solemn Shirabu.’ But I’ll take it.”

There’s a natural silence, and Shirabu isn’t sure what to say next. The ice is broken as he planned, but he’s not sure how to broach the real topic he came to discuss. He held out hope Tendou would pull the slack. For now, it seems they are doomed to talk in circles, dancing around the actual issue.

“Ah, have you seen anyone else from the team lately, I—”

Tendou cuts him off.

“You know, as tickled as I am that you want to talk about me, I’m sure you didn’t come here to play catch up.” He pauses, cocking his head. “Did you?”

As rude as it feels to refute the statement, Shirabu is operating on a limited time frame. He lowers his eyes. “No. I didn’t.”

There’s a hand on his chin, and he flinches so hard the table shakes. Only Tendou would be so bold as to pull something like this in public.

“Look at me,” Tendou says, his voice is soft but firm. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” 

Shirabu’s eyes snap up, and he nods. The theatrics are unnecessary, but they get them to the point nonetheless.

“I do,” Shirabu admits.

There’s a brief silence for both of them to collect their thoughts. Tendou seems to get to his faster, or maybe he already planned out what he wanted to say.

“Shirabu, are you having regrets,” he asks. His voice is calm, but his eyes convey a sense of worry.

Shirabu can’t draw up an easy answer. To say “no” would be too reductive. In some ways he does regret what happened; if given the chance, he’s uncertain he would have made the same choice. But it’s not the same regret that leaves people feeling disappointed or penitent. It was a good time, no doubt, but there’s a ton of things in the world that are a good time—doesn't mean you have to try all of them.

He’s unsure how to formulate this sentiment into an intelligible statement, so he sticks with a sincere and straightforward, “No, I'm not.”

Tendou seems unconvinced. “Ah, there must be something on your mind. You asked to meet up the day after it happened.” He purses his lips in thought. “...and after you spoke with Semisemi. Did he tell you to talk to me?”

“Yes, he did.” There’s no need for dishonesty. “He told me that you might be able to help me drain the flood.”

“The what now?”

This is why Shirabu doesn’t like abstraction. You never know who’s going to get it, and who’s going to stare at you like you’re speaking Pig Latin, minus the Latin.  Also, he’s not sure why he’s so damn hooked on this flood metaphor.

He goes in for a redirect. “Ok, let me try this again. Intimacy kind of fucks me up.” He pauses, waiting for Tendou to butt in with some comment. “Ever since that night, I’ve just been kind of, drowning in my thoughts. Usually I can handle them better, but I feel like I’m in over my head.”

“Hence the flood metaphor,” Tendou says in understanding.

“Hence the flood metaphor,” he confirms with a nod.

“Well, first off, I just want to say that I like art critic Shirabu better, poet Shirabu makes me nervous.”

Shirabu can’t argue, it’s a valid point.

“And secondly, I want to hear what Semisemi had to say on the matter before I give my two cents.”

“Ok well—”

“WAIT,” Tendou interrupts, slamming his hands down on the table. A man at a table nearby clears his throat pointedly.

“What,” Shirabu hisses.

“Not my two-cents, my ten-cents. My advice is way more valuable than that.”

He has to bite the inside of his cheeks at that one. “O-k,” he starts forcefully. “So, Semi told me, in his words: ‘when my mind’s a flood, I should stop fighting it and start learning to swim.’”

“So, Semi told you when you’re feeling like your mind’s a flood, you have to swim?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“How reckless of him. Anyone with half a mind should know that trying to swim in a flood is dangerous. The safest thing to do is find something to hold onto and ride it out.”

Shirabu cocks his head. “Like a life raft?”

The cafe begins to rattle again, signaling the coming of the next train. The room goes silent as guests wait for the train to roll through. When it’s passed, Tendou doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Precisely. Semi’s advice is helpful if you’re trying to deal with your problems alone. But you naturally isolate yourself, so you need a strategy that encourages you to actually accept help from other people,” Tendou explains. “Or you could just float away,” he adds.

“A life raft is a person in this situation,” Shirabu says. Perhaps he’s being a bit obtuse, but it’s not entirely intentional. The flood metaphor seems to be undergoing rapid expansion, it’s hard to keep up.

Tendou shakes his head. “Gods, Shirabu. You’re so dense sometimes. How would an actual inflatable raft help with your problems? Actually, I guess that could be kind of fun to play around in…”

“Focus, please,” Shirabu urges, rubbing at his temples. He can already feel a Tendou-induced-headache coming on. He hasn’t had one of those in years.

“Fine, sorry. Ok listen, you need a person who is steady, stable and can help you wade through your thoughts. If you pick someone emotionally constipated like you, you’ll both end up drowning. You have to find someone to balance you out. For example, I consider Wakatoshi my life raft. He’s great at keeping me level when I start to spin out. He’s unflappable.”

“So, how do I do that, find a life raft?”

“Oh! Are you asking me for relationship advice, Shirabu?”

He doesn’t want to validate this question with a response—doesn’t want to give Tendou the satisfaction of it. Still has to concede that, unlike him, Tendou has a long-term relationship and a number of good friends. In contrast, he has...a breadcrumb trail of one-night stands and two or three friends. Sure, connection isn’t a numbers game, but he’s also not in a position to be critical.

“No, but tell me anyway,” he replies, deadpan.

Tendou’s enthusiasm is not dampened. “Well, let me be the first to give you the good news: you’ve already found yourself a wonderful life raft! But, before you can board, you’ll have to lower your ridiculous emotional walls.”

He chooses to ignore the first part of that statement. “You’re going to have to elaborate on ‘ridiculous emotional walls.’”

“Step one: stop going after unattainable people. Haven’t you noticed the people you’re attracted to are the ones you can’t have?”

“Name one,” Shirabu challenges.

He doesn’t expect Tendou to have a list prepared. “Well, there was Wakatoshi, that guy in your class, and I’m sure that you probably pined after your pretty little roommate as well. What was his name again? The setter from Seijoh.”

Shirabu presses his nails into his palms, and his mouth tightens into a grimace. Though he’d never admitted it to anyone—and barely admitted it to himself—he had feelings for Yahaba for the first two years they lived together. Fortunately, those feelings settled and laid the foundation for a strong friendship, but things were really fucking difficult at times. Unrequited feelings tend to sting more when you have a front row seat to your love interest’s healthy and committed relationship.

“Am I going to far? I can stop,” Tendou says, sensing his discomfort. “I don’t want to make you upset.”

“No, it’s ok,” he grumbles. Even if the memories feel like barbs, he reminds himself he needs to see this through, in the interest of personal betterment, or whatever. “Finish your thought.”

Tendou looks at him hesitantly but acquiesces. “The feelings you like are ones that you never have to deal with. If there were to be someone who was interested in you, you wouldn’t give them the time of day, because then you'd have to confront the fact that something could work out, and that’s just too heavy for you handle.”

And there it is, Tendou’s mirror, showing him what he’s been trying his hardest not to see. Sometimes, he’s so perceptive that it feels like a violation of privacy like he’s rooting through the nooks and crannies of his mind. He’d have more leverage to be mad if Tendou wasn’t so goddamn right. In all honesty, he’s not telling him anything he couldn’t benefit from hearing.

Prior to this conversation, Shirabu saw Tendou as a dubious source of advice. But, even he isn’t too proud to admit when he’s proven wrong. As they say, even a broken clock is right twice a day. In Tendou’s case, he’s willing to up that number to five or six times a day.

“Fine, you might be right,” Shirabu says. It’s the best acknowledgement he can offer right now.

Tendou smiles, a Cheshire grin that says everything he’s too wise to say out loud, lest he wants Shirabu to hit him, which he would. “ _I’m right_ ,” the smile says, “ _you told me I was right, and I will never forget that. Ever_.”

“Look, you’ve put up crazy big emotional walls. But if you’re willing to lower them, even just a little bit…” He pinches his fingers together to illustrate _just_ how little he means. “You might be pleasantly surprised who’s willing to climb over.”

“That seems tedious,” Shirabu says.

“It’s all about taking baby steps. You don’t have to jump from A to Z all at once.”

“Baby steps,” he repeats. The idea sounds palatable. “I can try.” 

“Good. Whatever you do, just don’t jump straight from A to D.” Tendou has to pause to take some deep breaths. “That’s kind of your vice.” He bursts into loud laughter. A child at the next table giggles along, blissfully unaware of the crude, low-brow humor that has Tendou in stitches.

“You know, only a shit comedian laughs at his own jokes,” Shirabu says cooly.

Tendou wipes at his eyes and his chest shakes with the ghost of another laugh. “You know, only an arrogant prick doesn’t know how to laugh at himself.”

Touché.

✧✧✧

They talk long enough for the train to pass through twice more—mostly about Ushijima’s upcoming match—before Shirabu’s phone vibrates with the forty-five-minute warning he set. Even without hearing the notification, Tendou intuits that it’s just about time to go.

“Well, I guess we should probably head out. If you don’t catch the next train, you’ll be late to practice. Though, sometimes good things happen when you miss the train,” Tendou says with an eyebrow waggle.

Shirabu huffs but lets the comment slide. Life is all about picking and choosing battles, and as long as Tendou’s comments stay subtle like that, he can allow a few of them by without scolding. For his sanity, it’s best to lower his expectations.

The two put on their coats and drop some bills on the table. Shirabu leaves an extra coin in apology for Tendou’s multiple outbursts.

“Hold on,” he says abruptly. Tendou is already standing to leave. He stops, resting his hand on the back of his chair.

“Yes?”

“The theory, the Semi theory. What is that?” Shirabu can’t believe he almost forgot to confront him on the issue. He can’t just send cryptic texts like that and not explain.

Tendou smirks and his eyes narrow. “Oh, that! Hmm, that’s nothing to concern yourself with.”

“The fact that you’re telling me not to be concerned makes me more concerned.” He gives Tendou his patented soul-crushing stare, it has a consistently high success rate in encouraging people’s honesty.

“Ok, you win. Jeez, that look is so terrifying.” He uses his arm as a shield against Shirabu’s steely gaze. “I was trying to force your hand.”

“Force my hand on what exactly?”

“Admitting certain feelings for a certain dear friend of mine.”

Nope, this conversation is not happening. Not today. Not if he can help it.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he locks eyes with Tendou to show he means business.

He waves his hand dismissively. “Sure, sure.”

Shirabu clucks his tongue. He’ll have to do better than that next time. Not that there will be a next time and certainly not because he has _anything_ to hide. Maybe some things to repress, but that’s a whole different situation than hiding.

They share a brief embrace (which Tendou initiates) outside of the restaurant and make promises to grab coffee before the end of the semester. Somehow, there is a flimsiness to the plans that makes Shirabu uneasy. Tendou really stuck his neck out to help soothe his troubled mind. He wants to do something to show his appreciation, as a token of their continued friendship.

“Hey, Tendou,” Shirabu calls. His yelling voice isn’t loud, but the acoustics of the station help it carry.

Tendou turns but doesn’t make any motion to come back. The fucker is going to make him keep yelling, and he knows how much Shirabu hates to make a scene. It’s almost frustrating enough to make him reconsider the offer he’s about to make. But not quite, he’s feeling charitable.

“Let me know when your graduation is, and I’ll come.” 

Tendou raises his hand in a thumbs up. “Roger that!”

✧✧✧

He makes it to volleyball practice with no time to spare. Upon entering the gym, he makes a beeline for Yahaba and Kyoutani, who are stretching each other out. As he approaches, he can feel Yahaba’s judgment wash over him.

“You’re really cutting it close today,” Yahaba scolds. “What were you doing?”

Usually, he’d come back with some snarky remark to remind Yahaba to mind his own business. For some reason, though, he doesn’t feel like being a smartass. Perhaps Tendou’s pep talk made him feel soft. And honest.

“I was having coffee with Tendou,” he admits.

“Oh,” Yahaba gasps as Kyoutani pushes him to deepen his straddle stretch, using more physical contact than necessary. Shirabu is unfazed; their mildly inappropriate warm-up routine is second-nature to him and nothing compared to the things he’s walked in on at home. “You two are seeing a lot of each other,” Yahaba continues, with a hint of scrutiny.

“Can I not have other friends,” Shirabu asks. “You don’t have a monopoly on my company.”

Yahaba lets out a frustrated noise, but before he can fire back, the whistle blows for the team to line up. Shirabu realizes he forgot to stretch. He sighs—It’s going to be a long practice.

The mistake of not stretching becomes glaringly obvious as the team runs drills. His choice is irresponsible. As the team’s main setter, a position he’s not sure he even deserves, he has an obligation to stay healthy and ready for play. A preventable sprain from negligently warming up is not a good look. He does his best to stay focused and cautious through team drills and is relieved when the time comes for individual practice. For him, this means training the first-year setter and practicing his jump serve.

Today, the first year setter appears to be working on on receives which means...

“Yoohoo! Are you ready to work on your serve,” Yahaba calls, dragging a ball cart, and Kyoutani, behind him.

Shirabu shivers. He’s no stranger to intense serve practice; he survived the infamous Shiratorizawa 100 serve drills. But there's something aboutserving with Yahaba that still feels strange in context.

Both himself and Yahaba were reserve players their first year, and it was clear that the two of them would be duking it out to grab the coveted main setter spot. Their stats were about even. Both boasted experience as third-year captains and main setters, and though Shirabu had one extra year on the main line-up, Yahaba had something he didn’t—a powerful jump serve.

Shirabu had tried to find time to teach himself a jump serve in college but found bigger fish to fry. In high school, he based his whole setting style around accommodating Ushijima. When he got to college, it took months of practice to unlearn those habits and play effectively with the new ace. That’s why it was a total surprise when, late in their second year, the coach selected him to be the main setter and Yahaba to be the reserve setter and pinch server. This was predicated on the condition that he would learn a jump serve within the year. At first, he worried it was going to be the Semi debacle all over again, but Yahaba took the decision surprisingly well. Incidentally, the two share the court pretty evenly when it comes to games. The coach switches them liberally during sets to keep the tempo dynamic and provide respite. All in all, things worked out, but that doesn't stop him from feeling inadequate, like the position wasn't meant for him.

Plus, it took weeks of focused training for him to sync up with Kyoutani, who was displeased to find that his boyfriend would not be setter again—that’s a whole different can of worms.

Yahaba and Kyoutani start firing off serves like canons, while Shirabu begins to warm up with simple overhand serves like he’s used to. In all honesty, his own serve is solid, reliable, but he knows that it’s necessary to go to the next level. Unfortunately, his height and build don’t give him any advantages.

“Shirabu, you’re warm enough,” Yahaba says. He tosses the ball he’s holding back into the basket. “Do some jump serves.”

The first few serves land in the net, as they always do. The timing needed to achieve a jump serve has always been elusive. With some pointers from Yahaba, his serves start to bounce in short over the net. Then, as they start the second basket, the serves go a bit farther, closer to the center line, never crossing it. A serve to the back court is child’s play for Yahaba, but the white whale for Shirabu.

After a grueling hour of individual practice, the whistle blows again, signaling the end of afternoon training. As a small mercy, Friday practices don’t include conditioning, so Shirabu gets to go home for a well-deserved soak. Because their apartment is a five minute walk from the gym, they have the option to avoid the sometimes questionable communal showers

The crisp, fresh air feels good on his face as he, Yahaba, and Kyoutani emerge from the gym. The two whisper while Shirabu looks at the sky. It’s dark, with hints of pink and orange on the horizon, residual from the recent sunset. The walk is always refreshing, and he takes a few deep, cleansing breaths to center himself further, urging his tense muscles to relax.

“-rabu. Hey, Shirabu.” Comes a voice, dragging him out of his meditative state. It’s unmistakably Kyoutani.

“Huh?”

“I just wanted to tell you before I forgot,” he trails off like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be saying. He looks over at Yahaba, who nods encouragingly. “I can’t make the party tomorrow. I have a test on Monday, which means my wristband is up for grabs.”

“So, if you wanted to invite someone else, you could,” Yahaba adds.

Shirabu knows a scheme when he sees one. They’ve known about the party for almost a month, yet Kyoutani hasn’t said a peep about a test. Combine that with Yahaba’s near-constant meddling, and you get a plan that’s transparent...but just might work. It was hard enough for his friend Ari to get three wristbands for free, and he knows she would not be pleased to see any of them go unused.

Still, the party is a logistical nightmare for a last minute invite. It’s a blacklight party, and guests are asked to wear all white. Even for Shirabu, a lover of neutral tones, finding an outfit was hard.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. There’s not much to think about. It all boils down to whether he wants to invite Semi or not. The question has been the subtext of this whole conversation. In truth, inviting him is the most natural choice. Yahaba is already coming, and Ari, one of his other close friends, lives in the house the party's at. By process of elimination, this leaves Semi as the most logical next option.

There shouldn’t be anything weird about the asking Semi to the party, they invite each other to hang out multiple times a week and have been doing so for several years. But there’s something about this invitation that makes Shirabu’s spine tingle with anxiety and a touch of anticipation. He decides to save the actual inviting for after he’s calmed down.

At home, he draws a bath and settles in with a contented sigh. The water does what the walk home couldn’t, and his muscles feel soothed by the enveloping warmth. His eyes flutter shut as he tries to empty his mind of the day and be singularly present in the moment. It works for about twenty seconds until he hears a familiar voice in his head.

 _"Baby steps_ ,” the voice urges.

Ugh. He never imagined his new voice of reason would be Tendou, (and it might drive him to madness) but he’s right; he’s putting off texting Semi for no other reason besides it stirring up something in him he doesn’t want to acknowledge. It’s time to stop bailing out of relationships at the first sign of emotional complexity.

And he can take a baby step right now.

He allows himself to luxuriate in the water for a few more minutes, then reaches over to grab his phone from the lid of the toilet. He unlocks it and begins a conversation he should’ve started an hour ago.

 **[Shirabu 7:30]** : Hey, do you have any plans tomorrow night?

There’s no immediate response, then rapid-fire messages, in succession.

 **[Semi 7:32]** : No.

 **[Semi 7:32]** : Do you have plans for me?

 **[Shirabu 7:33]** : Want to go to a party my friend is hosting? Yahaba is coming, too.

 **[Semi 7:35]** : Yeah, sounds cool. Where’s it at?

 **[Shirabu 7:36]** : The I-house on the east side of campus.

 **[Shirabu 7:36]** : By the way, you have to wear all white.

 **Semi 7:37** : Oh sweet, I haven’t been there.

Of course, he hasn’t, the International House parties are strictly by invitation, and the only reliable way to snag an invitation is to know someone living there.

 **Semi 7:37** : Wait, why? Who owns enough white for a full outfit?

This is precisely what he’s been worried about. No one owns all white—especially Semi. Shirabu's seen him wear every other color imaginable. But he’s never, ever seen Semi wear plain white.

He decides to give him a vote of confidence, anyway.

 **[Shirabu 7:39]** : You’ll figure something out.

His phone chimes with a response, but he ignores in favor of curling up to enjoy the last bit of warm water. Once the bath runs cold, he manages to extract himself and relocate to his bed. Despite his tired muscle’s pleas, it’s too early for sleep, so he sets himself up with some trash TV to stay awake until a more reasonable bedtime. If he sleeps now, he’ll wake up at some ungodly hour, ready to start the day. He went through an “early to bed” phase in high school until the team insisted that he stop after he nearly scared Goshiki half-to-death. In his defense, he was hanging out in a communal space. Granted, it was 3 a.m., but what’s the point of a communal space if you can’t hang out there whenever you want?

After a few hours of mind-rotting shows, he determines that it’s a more appropriate bedtime. He makes a first attempt to close his eyes but is haunted by the nagging sensation of something left undone. It doesn’t take long to figure out what it is. It’s a message he meant to send back at the train station before the rush of practice swept him away.

He grabs his phone from where it’s buried under the blankets.

 **[Shirabu 11:30]** : Thank you for telling me to talk to Tendou. Things went well.

 **Semi 11:35** : I’m glad, Shirabu.

 **[Shirabu 11:37]** : Me too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Tendou is such a funny fellow to write. I really do like him, and I'd 100% take advice from him anytime. 
> 
>  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone loves a good party. I hope you enjoy this more upbeat chapter!
> 
> Note: This chapter contains vague reference to nausea/vomiting at the end. I'm an emetophobe myself, so nothing graphic. But please exercise good self-care while reading!

Like any good party, Semi hears it before he sees it. Maps tells him he’s two blocks away, but he can hear the unmistakable hum of baseline already. It’s a wonder that the party hasn’t been shut down considering the noise yet, for whatever reason, campus security always seems to turn a blind eye to the international students. He’s heard that they throw absolute ragers, but manage to keep them pretty well organized. Only those with wristbands can attend. Up until now, he’s never managed to snag an invite. He’s surprised Shirabu is the reason he’s getting access to one of these exclusive parties.

As he rounds the corner that the map says will lead him to the house, he takes a moment to do one last check on his outfit. _I tried_ , he thinks. Shirabu should know that it’s hard to find an all-white outfit on short notice. He’s wearing a white muscle tank and white sneakers. He wasn’t able to get white pants, but he’s two thirds there. It’s as much effort as he’s willing to put into a college party, plus, it’s not like everyone will be following the dress code.

He begins to walk again and is greeted by the familiar sounds of Yahaba and Shirabu bickering. Even from a block away, he can tell it’s them standing outside on the porch snapping at each other. A third person, a girl with platinum blonde hair, is sitting on the railing next to them, smoking a cigarette. As he gets closer, he sees that Shirabu is pinching Yahaba’s face in his hands, applying gold eyeliner. Or trying to. None of the three seem to notice his approach.

“Stop moving,” Shirabu hisses. “Do you want to go blind?”

“You’re pinching my face too tight,” Yahaba whines. “Plus, you’re literally putting something into my eye. Do we have to do this?”

“He did one eye already, you’ll look bad if you don’t let him do the other,” the girl says as she exhales a cloud of smoke. “On second thought, maybe you’ll look cool, avant-garde.”

Semi is unsure whether he should interrupt the tense moment, or keep standing to the side. He doesn’t want to startle Shirabu, and he values Yahaba keeping his eyesight, so he stays idle while Shirabu lines Yahaba’s other eye. He scrutinizes his work, then releases his grip on Yahaba’s face.

_Finally._

“Hey,” Semi says, moving to join the group.

The three turn to acknowledge him, and he barely has any time to register the wonders gold eyeliner does for Shirabu’s eyes before they descend. He tries to defend himself, but Yahaba and Shirabu are always faster with the quips and criticisms.

“This is a white-out party. You’re not whited out,” Yahaba scolds, gesturing at his offending denim.

“Yeah, I told you all white yesterday,” Shirabu adds. “You could have asked me if you didn’t have white pants.”

Semi puts his hands in front of his chest defensively. He knows he can’t stop them, but he can try to taper the incoming deluge. Shirabu and Yahaba make quite the dangerous team. To his surprise, it’s the girl that steps in to diffuse the situation. She puts out her cigarette on the railing and gracefully hops off.

On closer inspection, Semi realizes she is a taller, blonder Shirabu. She has waist length hair with similar blunt, uneven bangs. Her facial structure is sharp, with high cheekbones and heavily lidded eyes, just like Shirabu’s, but instead of gold, they are the lightest shade of blue Semi has ever seen on a person. She’s attractive, definitely, but this doesn’t come as a surprise. Pretty people tend to travel in packs, and Shirabu is hot so, by association, his friends will be hot, too. He wonders what being Shirabu’s friend says about him.

“I think he looks great, don’t be such little shits,” the girl says. Semi tenses. He would never dare to take on Yahaba and Shirabu like that; it’s a fight you just can’t win. Oddly, neither Yahaba nor Shirabu has a response. Instead, they resort to grumbling to each other.

“Thanks for that,” Semi says gratefully. “You saved me from an earful.”

The girl extends her hand, and Semi hesitates before reaching to shake it. Standing face to face, she’s almost as tall as him, and she’s not even wearing heels.

“You must be the Semi I’ve heard so much about. I’m Ariele, but you might know me as Ari.” She turns to Shirabu, and her voice raises. “That is if Shirabu’s mentioned me at all.”

“Yeah, yeah. I talk about you all the time,” Shirabu calls back. It’s not a lie, he has mentioned her a number of times since they met in their Advanced French seminar last semester.

“I’ve heard your name before,” Semi agrees. “But it’s nice to meet you officially.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too, Semi. Cool hair by the way,” Ari says, reaching a finger out to poke at one of his darker tips.

He reaches to push his hair out his face, it’s a reflexive response to a compliment. “Thanks.”

“Do you dye it yourself,” Ari asks. “Wait, sorry. I assume it must be dyed.”

“It is, and I do. Sometimes Shirabu is kind enough to help.” He glances over at him, trying to get his attention, but he and Yahaba are occupied by something on their phones. He feels a bubble of frustration at being ignored.

Ari purses her lips and gives him a long, odd look like she’s trying to understand something about him. When Semi doesn’t budge, she relaxes, acting as if nothing just happened. “Well, no use being out here in the cold anymore. Want to head inside?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Come on antisocial crew. We’re going inside,” Ari says, hustling Shirabu and Yahaba to the front door. Semi follows.

“Can we go to your room first,” Shirabu shouts as they step into the main entryway. The music is even louder inside, and the floor is vibrating.

“Sure,” Ari shouts. “You know the way.”

“It’s this way,” she says—this time to Semi directly— and points to a hallway veering off the left.

Yahaba and Shirabu head down the hallway, but Semi stays put. He’s not as comfortable as they are with the situation. Truth be told, while Semi goes to parties often, it’s definitely not his scene. For better or worse, the quality of his night depends on the people he’s spending it with. So far, Semi feels like the odd man out.

As if reading his mind, Ari appears next to him. “God, they’re so damn cute when they’re together,” she says, touching his back to encourage him in the right direction.

“Precious,” he replies, but there’s a little too much bitter on his tongue.

✧✧✧

Ari and Shirabu have even more in common than just looks and attitude. When they arrive at her room, it looks like the site of a small tornado. It’s similar to the clothing bomb that always seems to have gone off in Shirabu’s room. There are clothes on every surface and cosmetics stacked haphazardly on a small set of shelves. The only seating in the room is a large bed, so he’s unsure where to sit. He decides to lean against the shelves and pretend to look casual. Even though he isn’t alone, Semi hasn’t been in a girl’s room in...a while. He’s not sure what to do with himself.

Yahaba and Shirabu don’t share the same reticence. Shirabu shoves some dresses off the bed and the two flop down. For a moment, Semi considers joining them, but ultimately decides against it. When Shirabu and Yahaba are together, they clique up, and he feels weird trying to insert himself between them.

Semi is a lot of things, but he isn’t needy, and he refuses to fight for Shirabu's attention.

He’s startled by Ari bumping him roughly with her hip. “Go ahead, make yourself at home,” she says. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind,” he says. A drink would be nice. Ideally, it will force him to relax. Ari nods and walks over to a mini-fridge in the corner of her room. She retrieves a bottle of rum and a can of coke. 

“Ok, before I give this to you, _please_ sit down. You’re making me nervous,” Ari says. Semi blushes, and complies, opting to sit on the floor in front of the bed. He makes eye contact with Shirabu for the first time since arriving in Ari’s room, and Semi swears he sees the right side of his mouth tick up. It’s more soothing than any amount of alcohol could ever be, Semi decides.

But he’s going to drink anyway. 

“Guests first,” Ari says, offering him the bottle. He takes it, and Ari opens the can of coke. She passes that to him, too.

“Cheers,” he says, to no one in particular, and takes a couple long gulps from the bottle. Semi has always prided himself on high alcohol tolerance, and his ability to chug has become almost a party trick for him. Even so, he feels the hint of a shiver running up his spine and sips some of the soda to remove the lingering burn from his mouth.

“Shit,” Yahaba whispers, and Ari’s mouth hangs open. Shirabu is the only one who doesn’t look surprised but, of course, Semi and Shirabu have been drinking together since high school. This isn’t a novelty for him.

“I see you can still knock them back, Semi,” Shirabu says, flashing him a smile that looks almost flirtatious. It’s funny how being around Shirabu makes him go from rational to hopeful.

“Save some for me,” Ari whines, and snatches the bottle. She takes a couple smaller, still impressive drinks, but ends up coughing and sputtering. Shirabu snorts, and the two exchange a heated glare. Semi decides to be helpful and passes her the chaser. After a few seconds, Ari is back to normal, and on a rampage.

“Alright, you little brat,” she growls at Shirabu. “Time to drink.”

“No,” Shirabu responds, crossing his arms over his chest. “Rum is gross.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, and you’re gonna regret not being at least tipsy when we go to the basement,” Ari says.

That seems to do the trick because Shirabu rolls his eyes and takes the bottle. He takes one tiny sip, then puts the bottle down, an indignant look on his face.

Ari and Yahaba groan and Semi laughs. Shirabu feeds off making people annoyed, so their frustration serves to make him more stubborn. Semi feels a swell a pride. Clearly, he’s the only one who knows what makes him tick.

“I see your drinking skills haven’t graduated from amateur hour,” Semi mocks. Shirabu narrows his eyes, and Semi knows he’s hit just the right spot. Shirabu plugs his nose and takes a series of long swallows from the bottle. _Oops_. Semi scolds himself for not anticipating that this was precisely what was going to happen. He challenged Shirabu, so he stepped up. Semi has never seen him drink more than a couple beers at a party. Now, he’s gulped down about no small share of the bottle in one go. He’s not sure whether to be in awe or terrified.

“Are you going to drink tonight,” Shirabu asks, panting lightly. He holds out the bottle to Yahaba.

Semi swears he seems some of the color drain from Yahaba’s face. Semi knows the last time they went out; things didn’t go so well for him. Shirabu had told him about the—incident—on the train and that Yahaba had sworn off alcohol for a while. He probably would have done the same in that situation, so there’s no judgment, but he also prides himself on always managing to handle his shit.

“Would you prefer a soda instead,” Ari offers, and Yahaba nods. She retrieves another can from the fridge and tosses it to him.

“Thanks,” Yahaba says gratefully. He seems happy to have something to hold. From what he understands, Yahaba hates feeling left out.

The four of them decide to stay in the room until the alcohol starts to kick in. Ari repeats that the basement is going to be loud and crowded and that being drunk is almost essential to having fun. Then, she carries the conversation by talking about her adventures as an exchange student. Semi gathers that she’s interested in art, just like Shirabu, and came to Japan learn more about Eastern art styles, or something like that. His ears begin to ring, and he starts to tune her out.

Time starts to stretch and pass. How much time? He’s not sure, but a familiar warmth radiates through his body, and a heaviness settles behind his eyes, making her words more and more difficult to focus on. He watches Shirabu begin to sway and, eventually, crash into Yahaba, who wraps an arm around him.

Ari seems to sense the shift in the energy and stands up, stumbling at first, to sit on the bed by Shirabu. He scoots closer and nuzzles his face down her neck, letting it come to rest on her chest. Semi feels his mouth go dry at the display. He’s never seen Shirabu properly inebriated, and the idea of him being a touchy drunk makes him dizzy. Ari, on the other hand, seems unfazed by the contact, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. She puts her arm around Shirabu, hoisting him to his feet.

“Looks like someone is ready to go,” Ari asks, now looking directly at him. “Are you?”

Now that he thinks about it, he feels pretty ready to do _something_. Ari’s room feels too cramped to contain his energy, and the muffled bassline is a siren song, luring him down.

“Fuck yeah,” Semi says.

“Fuck yeah,” Ari agrees, and they head downstairs.

✧✧✧

Even drunk, Semi is entirely unprepared for the blast of noise and light that is the basement. It’s pitch black with the exception of several blacklights and a small area where the DJ’s equipment is set up. Everyone’s clothes are glowing, and Semi notices that there is a dark block where his shirt ends down to his shoes.

He doesn’t have much time to lament his choice of attire when a hand yanks him forward into the crowd. To his surprise and delight, it’s Shirabu pulling him towards the small area he’s managed to snag for them. The room is packed, but the small windows lining the walls provide some measure relief from the stifling heat. Their spot is right under one of those windows, a fact he’s grateful for; he’s already started sweating, and they’ve been in the basement less than five minutes.

Ari disappeared at the bottom of the stairs, leaving the three of them to fend for themselves. Yahaba and Shirabu waste no time starting to dance, and Semi wastes no time trying to plot the most subtle way to get Shirabu to dance with him. He’s never pictured Shirabu as someone who enjoys dancing. In fact, he’s seen him adamantly refuse to dance at parties before, but his drunk brain isn’t going to question his stroke of good fortune. He just needs to find the best way to slide into their space. It’s not going to be easy, Shirabu and Yahaba are fluctuating rapidly between what looks like a choreographed routine and play-fighting.

Semi spends three songs watching Shirabu but makes no motion to get any closer to him. He catches Shirabu looking at him a few times, but they haven’t managed to make eye contact. On the fourth song, a popular rap remix, he decides he’s going to just rip off the band-aid and ask him to dance. If the worst happens, he can blame it on the alcohol. No harm, no foul. He looks one last time at him, and this time, they lock eyes. Shirabu looks delicious even in the odd lighting, and though he’s dancing against Yahaba, he’s moving in a way that Semi thinks, or wants to believe, is inviting. He’s about to stride over when a pair of hands snake up his back, resting at the base of his neck.

“Don’t just stand here, dance with me!” Semi spins around to find Ari in front of him again. He’s caught off guard and feels rude rejecting the host, so he obliges, allowing Ari to settle her hips against his. It works well, given that they’re just about the same height, and even Semi can’t deny that it’s at least a little hot having someone grind up on him, even if it’s not exactly who he expected. He grips low on her hips and curses his horny lizard brain for being so easily distracted from his plans.

Though, to be fair, Shirabu could have come to him if he _really_ wanted. Shirabu busted his entire ass to go to Shiratorizawa because he wanted to play with Ushijima. It’s clear that he’s willing to go after what he wants when he wants. If he wants to dance with Semi, he can buck up and walk the five feet over. Why does _he_ have to do all the work? Ok, so the issue is much more complicated than that. But it’s too loud, and he’s too drunk to parse out the nuances of Shirabu’s thought process right now.

As Semi continues to dance with Ari, he feels Shirabu’s eyes locked on him. Every so often, Yahaba attempts to refocus his gaze by turning his face and mouthing something in his ear but, like most of Shirabu’s antics, Yahaba gets sucked in, too. So, Semi does the most logical and mature thing he can think of and stares back at both of them. The three end up locked in a staredown stalemate, while Ari dances obliviously.

Or so he thinks.

As the song changes, she hooks an arm around the back of Semi’s neck, pulling their faces closer, and his heart just about jumps out of his chest. He feels Shirabu’s stare turn to a glare instantly. He isn’t prepared for this. Ari wasn’t supposed to try to hook up with him. He just wanted to rile Shirabu up a bit, and now he’s paying the price. He’s frozen as Ari leans in, but instead of a kiss, there’s a voice in his ear.

“Don’t react,” she says. “Just listen.”

Semi nods, still unable to break eye contact with Shirabu and Yahaba. He isn’t sure what’s about to happen, but he’s relieved that it doesn’t involve Ari making a pass at him.

“I’m going to help you two out, ok?”

He nods again. The situation has become a lot less awkward and a lot more interesting now that Shirabu is involved.

“Leave and go up the first set of stairs to the right. They go to the roof.”

“What’s up there,” Semi asks.

“The stars and shit. A place to talk. You two just need to go make out or something.”

Semi doesn’t know how to respond to that. Quite frankly, he doesn’t know how to respond to any of this. All this scheming would be too much for him to handle sober, it’s baffling in his current state. Luckily, it seems Ari’s got the details figured out.

“I’ll send Shirabu up in a few minutes, cool?”

“Cool,” he says dumbly.

“Great. Have fun,” Ari cheers, and shoves Semi as hard as she can towards the basement stairs. _Fuck, she’s strong_ , he thinks, rubbing a now tender spot on his arm. The shoving wasn’t necessary. 

He looks over his shoulder to see Ari prancing over to an unamused looking Shirabu. It’s out of character for him to just immediately trust someone he’s just met but, at this point, he’s so eager for some alone time with Shirabu, he’ll try anything.

He just hopes Ari knows Shirabu well enough to execute a plan that won’t cause him to storm out of the party. He considers going back to talk to him directly but realizes that returning after his blatant send-off might more awkward than just stepping outside for a few minutes.

Seeing no better option, he puts his faith in Shirabu’s very forward friend and takes the staircase to the right.

✧✧✧

At the very least, the roof is a refreshing change from the sweltering basement. Even though it’s a chilly autumn night, Semi feels perfect with the residual heat from the basement and his alcohol sweater. A few people are lounging and chatting, but otherwise, the roof is much quieter. Semi is appreciative that he can hear his thoughts again.

He surveys the area and spots a couple of lawn chairs in an empty corner. _Bingo_. He sighs contentedly as he reclines on the chair, and stares up at the sky. Ari wasn’t lying. There’s a great view of the stars up here. His vision swims from the drinks, and the way it makes the sky spin reminds him of watching a star show at the planetarium.

He watches the sky for a few minutes, checks his phone, and eavesdrops on a heated conversation between two girls. He feels consoled by the fact that both of them seem to be having a weirder night than him. He’s not having a bad night, but every minute that passes makes him feel like Shirabu may not be coming. The fresh air, space to breathe, and natural light have sobered him significantly, and if Shirabu is off fooling around with Ari and Yahaba, he’d rather go home.

“There you are,” comes a familiar voice, just as he’s ready to call it a night. He looks up to see Shirabu standing in front of him. He’s holding a bottled water and a red cup. “This is for you, I found it in the kitchen,” he slurs. He offers Semi the water, and he takes it hesitantly.

“I think maybe you should have some, too,” Semi says.

“I already have a drink.” Shirabu points to the red cup and laughs. It’s a loud, barking laugh, one he’s only heard once...when Tendou was going through his “slap cam” phase, and Goshiki was the victim, three times, in one practice.

“Do you want to sit down?” Before Shirabu came up, Semi slid the two lawn chairs together. In part, he wanted to make sure none of the vulture students sitting on the edge of the roof would steal the seat. He also wanted to encourage Shirabu to sit closer to him.

Generally, Semi thinks of his feelings for Shirabu as a low-grade fever. Yeah, he knows they’re there, and sometimes they can really wear him down. Over time, though, he’s learned to set them aside, and lead a healthy romantic life; he sleeps with other people and stays open to the possibility of a relationship. That all goes out the window when Semi drinks. His feelings burn, and Shirabu is all he can focus on. While he doesn’t love the desperate mess it turns him into, he’s also bolder in his approach. It’s never anything extreme, he respects him and their friendship too much for that, but if sliding two chairs together gets him a little more contact? Well, he’s willing to do it.

“Sit,” he says. It’s not a question this time. Shirabu stares at the small gap where the two chairs meet and sits. He’s close enough to share body heat, but far enough away that they don’t touch.

The two sit in silence, listening to the soft chatter of the other groups on the roof. Shirabu is looking up at the sky, and Semi takes a moment to survey his drink. It smells sugary, like a mix of liquor and juice. Shirabu hates sweets and hard alcohol, but he suspects his drunk palate is less discerning.

“I’m sorry if Ari was harassing you,” Shirabu says, looking over at Semi. There’s a strange, unplaceable expression on his face. He feels his heart start to race. Somehow, this feels like a verbal spring trap. If he says the wrong thing, Shirabu will clamp down.

“I didn’t mind,” he responds neutrally. Then, realizes how not neutral his answer was. Shirabu cocks an eyebrow, and the right side of his mouth twitches down. It’s a blink, and you’ll miss it movement, but he catches it, and his stomach twists.

“Well, she probably thinks you’re cute. I can talk to her for you, or, better yet, you can go back down there yourself,” Shirabu says. He punctuates his words by downing the rest of his cup and tossing it against the roof’s ledge. It bounces once, then topples over the side.

Semi’s mind races. Shirabu misinterpreted his statement to mean that he wanted attention from Ari, and now he’s irritated. It’s a little victory Semi doesn’t have time to celebrate, he knows he needs to diffuse the situation before it gets volatile. Drunk Shirabu does not share his counterpart’s composure. “Thanks, but I’m honestly not interested. It was nice to meet your friend, though. I can see why you two get along.”

Shirabu studies Semi’s face, likely assessing the veracity of his statement. “Oh, cool,” is Shirabu’s only response. He still doesn’t look thrilled, but there’s a hint of relief in his voice.

“So, uh, where’s Yahaba?” Semi asks, trying to break the awkward silence that’s fallen between them.

“Kyoutani came and picked him a while ago. He said he was ‘too sober to be here.’”

“I don’t blame him, I’m honestly starting to feel the same,” Semi says. While he’s still feeling a buzz, it’s nothing like it was in the basement.

Shirabu’s eyes flash mischievously, and he leans in close, so close that Semi can see the last remnants of gold eyeliner on his eyes, almost all washed out from sweat, and smell the sweetness of the liquor on his breath. “Then let’s get out of here.”

If Semi had a drink, he’d either choke or do a spit take. He’s heard Shirabu say those words a thousand times but only in the safe confines of his mind. To hear him say them out loud is practically a religious experience. Even though he knows that Shirabu doesn’t mean it to be a proposition, he finds himself licking his lips in anticipation.

“What did you have in mind,” Semi says, struggling to sound as calm and not sprung as possible.

Shirabu rubs his finger over the tip of his nose in thought. “Does your record player still work?”

The clarification douses Semi’s inner fire, but a whole new set of ideas blossoms in its wake.

Maybe he’ll get his dance with Shirabu after all.

✧✧✧

Shirabu giggles the whole walk home, prattling on about how good of a night he had and how happy he was to spend time with his _best friends_. He feels the tiniest barb in his heart at the mention of being Shirabu’s best friend, but it’s quickly soothed by the fact that he considers him to be so dear. It’s rare that Shirabu is willing to give verbal confirmation of the importance of relationships to him; Semi has to intuit that Shirabu doesn’t secretly hate him from the sheer amount of time he’s willing to spend hanging out with him.

Back at his apartment, Shirabu starts his ritual of taking off his shoes and staring for a few moments at the painting above the couch. He’s doesn’t know why Shirabu always pays so much attention to it, given that he was so quick to insult it when he first brought it home. It’s no masterpiece, just a simple picture of an antique boat. He got it for dirt cheap at a flea market, and even he’s confident that it has no actual artistic value.

While Shirabu is busy with the art, Semi heads to the kitchen to grab some water and make himself a midnight snack. He knows that his morning will depend on the effort he puts in now to feed and hydrate himself. Shirabu is another issue. He’s wasted, more wasted than he’s ever been, Semi suspects. He’ll do anything he can to try to stave off the impending ill effects of Shirabu’s overindulgence, mainly because he is in no small part responsible for it.

“I want music,” Shirabu calls from the living room. “You said we could listen to records.”

That’s true, using Semi’s record player was the whole premise of coming over. Thinking more clearly, he’s not sure why he agreed. It’s past midnight, and his neighbors aren’t the most understanding people. Maybe he would be willing to do something else, like play a game or watch a movie.

“Shirabu, it’s kind of late, maybe we could—”

Before he can finish his sentence, Shirabu appears in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Please, Eita.” He pouts. It’s a dirty, but effective, move.

Neighbors be damned, there’s no way he can deny him now. But he’s also going to get something out of this exchange as well. If he’s willing to beg, he’s probably willing to do...other things.

“Ok. But you need to text Yahaba and let him know where you are and drink one full glass of water first.” For a moment, Semi wonders if Shirabu is going to tear his ass apart for babying him. Quite frankly, he’s surprised at his own protectiveness. Shirabu twists his mouth and narrows his eyes but doesn’t argue.

“I’ll drink the water while we listen,” Shirabu says.

“Deal.”

Semi grabs the drinks and leftovers he’s heated up for himself and sets them on the living room table. Then, he searches his record library for the perfect music. His father collected records, so he often got them as gifts when he was younger. As he got older, he started to cultivate his own collection. Initially, the collection was purely decorative. But his parents surprised him with his own record player on his 21st birthday. Unfortunately, it didn’t get as much use as he had imagined.

“Anything in particular you’re in the mood for,” he asks. His music taste is narrow, but he feels like asking Shirabu is the polite thing to do.

Shirabu puts down the water he’s dutifully sipping. “Whatever’s your favorite,” he responds, smiling brightly.

“O-kay!” Semi has to duck down to hide his burning face. He slides his hands across the jackets of the records and composes himself. He’s embarrassed by how much Shirabu’s uncharacteristically cheerful responses are affecting him. He takes a few cleansing breaths and reminds himself that Shirabu doesn’t even realize how he’s acting. It’s just the alcohol talking. It’s disappointing, but settling, and he focuses enough to find his favorite record. It’s an American rock band he discovered on a song shuffling app. He liked them so much that he ended up shelling out for one of their records.

Semi considers asking Shirabu if he wants to put the record on, but a voice in his head tells him that it may be unwise to let a drunk person near delicate machinery. He files this away as something to show him in the future. Shirabu patiently watches from the floor as he removes the broken record that’s been sitting on the platter and blows off the dust. Then, he adds the new record and drops the needle. For a moment, there’s silence, and he wonders if his months of neglect have broken the machine but, to his relief, music starts to play, and he’s able to join Shirabu on the floor.

They sit listening, while he eats his snack, and Shirabu drinks his water. He’s pleased to see Shirabu enjoying himself. At first, he’s tapping his feet and shaking his head to the beat. But his energy fades, and he flops forward so that he’s laying on his stomach. His feet still swing uncoordinatedly, but it’s apparent he’s about to hit a wall for the night. At the very least, Semi observes, he’s finished his cup, as promised. He clears the glasses and plate and lays down on his stomach next to Shirabu. The moment feels right to be bold, so he nudges Shirabu’s foot with his own.

“Hey, this was a really fun night. Thanks for inviting me,” he says earnestly. He’ll tell this to Shirabu again when he’s sober, but he wants this Shirabu to hear it, too. 

Shirabu giggles and averts his gaze. “Thanks for coming,” he says to the ground.

Shirabu’s energy depletes further, so he’s laying completely flat with his head pillowed on his hands. He yawns loudly. Semi watches him, propped up on his own elbow, admiring the way his position makes his cheek squish up and hair stick out on the sides. It’s absolutely adorable, and he wonders how inappropriate it would be to take a picture.

“Hey, Semi.” Shirabu’s voice is muffled by hands, but he doesn’t seem interested in raising his head to speak more audibly. Semi leans in closer to make sure he can hear.

“Hm?”

“How come you haven’t visited me at work?”

“Eh? Why are you thinking about this?”

“I don’t know. I just am.”

Semi is admittedly puzzled by the conversation, and it’s not just the randomness of it. He knows Shirabu works as an intern at a small, local museum. However, while he’s spoken about his position, at no point has Shirabu ever expressed an interest in Semi showing up. He voices that concern.

“I wasn’t aware that was something you wanted,” he says, but there’s a question in his response. _Would you like me to visit you_?

Shirabu raises his shoulders in what appears to be a shrug and makes a noncommittal sound. “If you come, you can have a tour,” he says and reaches a finger out from under his chin to boop Semi on the nose. “Not everyone gets a tour.”

The idea of Shirabu talking about something he’s passionate and knowledgeable about sounds good, but the idea of getting special treatment from Shirabu sounds even better. He imagines them traipsing through the museum on a rainy day. The sound of the drizzle is an ambient soundtrack as they stroll through the exhibits while Shirabu provides insight into the art. If it’s a _really_ good visit, he gets a little extra special attention from his gracious tour guide.

“—and you have to come on a Thursday. Semi, are you listening? A Thursday. No one comes on Thursdays.”

Semi shakes his head back to reality, realizing he just casually started daydreaming through Shirabu’s conversation. He doesn’t want to ask him to repeat himself, so he does his best to respond naturally. “Ok, I’ll come on a Thursday.”

Shirabu yawns again, and Semi thinks it might be time to settle in for the night. He’s starting to feel sluggish himself.

“Hey, Shirabu. Do you want me to take you home,” he asks.

“Mnm,” comes a muffled sound. Shirabu’s eyes are closed now, and his face is fully hidden in his hands. Semi is not sure what the sound means, but he thinks it sounds like a negative and doubts he’s going to get much more at this point.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

“Mhm.” That response is more recognizable, and Semi gets to work setting up the couch. His couch has extendable footrests to add more width, and he adds some extra pillows and a fluffy blanket. _Spoiled_ , he thinks but continues to make the couch as comfortable as possible.

“I’ll put some sweatpants in the bathroom. You can wash up and change.”

He waits in the living room until Shirabu emerges again, now wearing some of his old Shiratorizawa gear. The shirt and pants are expectedly big on him, making the image all the more endearing.

“Are you going to be ok, or should I stay out here with you,” he asks. It seems like Shirabu has sobered up significantly from the roof, but he’s worried to sleep all the way in his room, just in case.

“I’ll be fine,” Shirabu assures. “Thank you for all of this.”

“Be sure to sleep propped up. I set up the pillows for you already.”

“I got it.”

He nods and forces himself to turn and head towards his bedroom. He needs to stop worrying, Shirabu may be stubborn, but he won’t jeopardize his safety because of it. He’d ask for Semi if he needed him. Right?

 _I wouldn’t be so sure about that_ , the little voice in his head says.

He ignores it and slips into bed, relishing how good it feels after the long night.

He certainly does not think about how much better it would feel if Shirabu were there.

✧✧✧

When he opens his eyes again he’s grateful to find that he’s, with the exception of a slight headache, not hungover. Though he touts his high alcohol tolerance, it’s mostly a front at this point. He barely drinks anymore, the original novelty lost on him. So, after the reckless drinking he did last night, he was braced for a rough morning.

He heads to the bathroom to shower, then decides he should check on Shirabu. His gut tells him that he’ll open his door to an empty couch and no explanation, but his hopeful side wants to believe that he’s managed to catch Shirabu before he flees. He’s not sure what, if anything, Shirabu remembers from the night before, but he’s positive that if he does recall how he was acting, he’ll be embarrassed. When embarrassed, Shirabu’s instinct is to be as evasive as possible.

Semi opens the door as quietly, as not to disturb him if he’s still sleeping. He pads down the hall leading to the living room, and a pang of disappointment curls in his stomach when he sees the couch is empty. The disappointment turns to irritation when he notes that the blanket and pillows he so kindly set up are haphazardly tossed on the floor like he left in a hurry. Semi furrows his brow, he’s unsure why Shirabu would feel so moved to just run out of the apartment.

No matter what he remembered, it’s not like they did anything intimate. In fact, Semi had gone out of his way to keep any contact light and inconsequential, to ensure Shirabu didn’t feel like he was taking advantage of his drunkenness. He’s staring at the pillow and blanket, trying to figure out what happened, when he hears a weak sniffle. He jerks his head around trying to find the source of the noise. That’s when he notices the light from the guest bathroom, streaming through the slightly opened door.

Semi’s heart drops, as the puzzle pieces fall into place. He walks over to the bathroom, braces himself, and pushes open the door. It’s not a pretty scene. Shirabu is leaning against the wall closest to the toilet. His head is hung between his knees, but it rises slowly when he hears Semi come in. Seeing his face is almost worse. Semi had always thought it was an expression that people turned green when they were sick but, today, he’s proven wrong. Shirabu’s face is completely white, with a small hint of pale green on his cheekbones. He looks at Semi with a weak expression in his watery, red-rimmed eyes.

“Ah, shit,” is all Semi can manage.

How did it get this bad? They had about the same amount to drink. Except that Shirabu is a good three inches shorter than Semi, and slighter, and also had another cup of something when they were on the roof. _Fuck_ , he curses internally, he knew he should have taken that damn sugary drink away.

“Shit is right,” Shirabu says, his voice is croaky, and Semi imagines his throat is dry. There’s no water next to him or on the counter. He wonders how long he’s been in here, sitting here alone on the cold, uncomfortable tile.

“Why didn’t you wake me up,” Semi asks, frustration in his voice. “I could have helped.”

Shirabu doesn’t respond. Semi should already know the answer. Once, in high school, Shirabu got clocked in the face by one of Kawanishi’s spikes. His nose wasn’t broken, but it was bleeding everywhere. Multiple members of the team offered to walk him to the infirmary for first aid, and he adamantly refused, to the point of being borderline aggressive. His pride and fierce self-reliance would never allow him to be cared for like that. Semi hoped that trait had softened over the years; apparently, it hadn’t.

“So, uh, do you think you’ll be sick anymore?” He wants to get Shirabu out of the bathroom. It’s stuffy and reeks of alcohol and vomit. He doesn’t want the smell to linger, so he’d like to start cleaning right way—also, he’s sure the atmosphere can’t be making him feel any better.

“Probably, maybe, I don’t know,” he says exasperatedly.

“Ok, it’s ok,” Semi reassures. “Let me try to make you more comfortable.”

Semi starts by opening the small window in the bathroom to give Shirabu some fresh air. Cold air always helps him feel better when he’s nauseous. Shirabu’s face perks up some after taking some deep breaths but makes no move to get up from his slumped position. Satisfied with the slight progress, Semi goes to his own bathroom to retrieve a grey cotton headband, then, stops by the kitchen for a glass of ice cubes from the freezer. When he gets back, Shirabu has managed to sit himself up. His knees are still tucked to his chest, but he’s no longer curled in on himself.

“Do you want an ice cube, might be easier than straight up water,” Semi offers, passing the cup to Shirabu. He wrinkles his nose but pops one of the cubes into his mouth anyway. It’s only there for a couple of seconds before he spits it back out.

“Nope, I can’t do this,” he grits. He sets the cup down and drapes a hand over his stomach.

Semi looks at Shirabu sympathetically and crouches next to him on the ground. He gives Shirabu the grey headband. “Here, put this on. It’s better than me holding your hair.”

Shirabu gives the offering an odd stare but doesn’t relent. He carefully slides on the headband, making sure it catches all of his bangs. Semi studies him; it’s the first time he’s seen Shirabu with his hair pushed back. It’s odd, almost jarring, and Semi thinks he might like it if it weren’t for the fact that the headband was intended to keep his sweat and sick covered hair out of his face. Shirabu whines, leaning his head against the wall. It’s cute, pathetic, and makes Semi want to kiss his everywhere, even his disgusting mouth.

He opts for a milder option and sits next to him. Close enough to provide support, but far enough that Shirabu doesn’t feel stifled. Shirabu looks over at him, eyes still wet (from stress Shirabu will later insist, I had puked like five times already), and Semi feels drawn in like Shirabu is inviting him closer. He scoots, just an inch, and to his surprise, Shirabu leans his head against his shoulder with a resigned huff. Under normal circumstances, Semi’s heart would have leaped from his chest at the contact, and he would have wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in tight. But right now, it’s not the place or the time, so he offers what he can.

“I’ll take care of you.”

Shirabu raises his head, their faces inches apart, and Semi wonders if he’s scared him off. He hopes he hasn’t, Shirabu is in no condition to up and run away. Instead, he gives Semi an indiscernible look. It’s not necessarily warm, or amorous, but his eyes are soft, and his mouth hangs open just slightly, as if surprised. Semi isn’t sure how to react, so he smiles and nods as if to reaffirm his previous statement.

To his delight, Shirabu lays his head down again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations on making it over halfway through (if you're reading straight through, please take a break). I hope to see you in the next chapter! 
> 
> Also, a quick, unsolicited note on Ari. I added the babe because I wanted to Shirabu to hang out with people other than folks he knew from high school volleyball. I figured he'd have a lot fun with an outspoken, fun-loving gal.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. I hope you're still having fun. You've made it over the hump, and the pace greatly picks up from here on out! You're in the homestretch :) 
> 
> I'd like to take a quick moment to thank Moons again for everything she's done for this fic. If you're reading this, you're the best!

Typically, Shirabu tries his best to maintain a professional façade at work, which includes looking bright and approachable at his desk—or, at least as bright and approachable as he can physically maintain. Today, however, he allows himself to look bored. His weekday afternoon shifts at the museum are slower, but usually, there are at least a few visitors to keep him entertained. _Patrons, not visitors_ he corrects himself. The curator, his boss, would scold him if he found out Shirabu was even thinking with the wrong terminology.

Despite the curator’s eccentricity, working at the museum is a pretty sweet gig. All he has to do is sit at a desk three times a week, answer questions, and occasionally discuss art with some of the chattier patrons. He’s almost never supervised, so he can do homework whenever it’s slow, and the pay is high compared to what his other friends make at their jobs. All in all, Shirabu feels blessed that his professor recommended him for the position.

Right now, the only other person in the museum is the ticket desk attendant, who is just too far away to talk to even if he wanted (he doesn't). It’s strange to see the museum  empty, but he suspects it has something to do with the hellish weather. The wind is howling, and hail is pouring down in an icy torrent. Shirabu remembers the newscast he watched this morning, which predicted a big winter storm arriving in the evening. It’s early in the season for snow, but it’s been an unseasonably cold autumn so far. Winter promises to be just as brutal. He checks his phone, tapping the weather application and scanning the "hour by hour" option. When it doesn't give him an answer he likes, he tosses the phone away and turns back to his French homework.

Shirabu has always found it easy to focus on things, especially when it comes to academics, but for some reason, he just can’t quite settle into his work. He’s been antsy since he woke up, a strange fluttering feeling in his gut; it’s not nerves, more like anticipation. He had expressed this sentiment to Yahaba and Kyoutani over breakfast, and Kyoutani had pointed out that perhaps he was suffering from the effects of the storm.

_"Many animals become restless before a storm hits," he hears Kyoutani explain. "It may have something to do with the change in barometric pressure."_

Shirabu is not an animal, and the issue is not the barometric pressure: it’s Semi. It’s been three weeks since the black light party, and even though things between them have been normal, he can’t stop thinking about that morning after. Maybe the normalcy is the issue, or maybe allowing Semi to care for him has thrown him off-balance. Intimacy always fucks with his head. That’s why he’s always been resistant to people taking care of him.

Yet he didn’t stop Semi from sitting on the bathroom floor with him for almost two hours until he was sure he wasn’t going to puke upon standing up. After that, he allowed Semi to relocate back to his couch where he proceeded to feed him clear soup and ice cubes until Kyoutani and Yahaba picked him up. He’s no stranger to Semi’s nurturing side, he might have a short fuse, but he’s a known softie when it counts. That being said, he’s never been on the receiving end of his attention.

Since that morning, he’s felt like their relationship is on the precipice of something unknown, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying. It’s exhilarating because contrary to what people might think, Shirabu enjoys a little bit of risk. It’s terrifying because he doesn’t know when and if they’ll topple over that ledge, and what they’ll find on the other side.

Focus! Shirabu’s brain screams, and he activates his secret weapon. He brings both of his hands to his face in a quick slap—a move repurposed from his high school days. At one time, it was his means of self-punishment for flaws on the court. Now, it’s a last-ditch means of snapping himself out of destructive thought processes.

 _Taking time to acknowledge your emotions isn’t destructive_ , the littlest voice in his head urges. The last time he listened to that voice, though, he ended up almost crying in a train station. He doesn’t give it much credence anymore.

Focus! He urges himself again. There's really no reason he shouldn't. It's quiet, no one is distracting him, and he still has a few hours left on his shift. He might as well be productive. A few seconds pass without any action.

Or not.

Sighing, he takes out his phone to check his social media. If he isn’t going to be productive with his own life, he might as well catch up on other people’s. Just as his feed begins to load, the front door to the museum swings open, propelled forcefully by the wind. Shirabu feels the chill all the way in the back of the museum and wraps his cardigan around himself. He squints to see the who’s in the doorway, but the person is so bundled from their time outside that it’s impossible to make out much. He notes that it's not often that the museum hosts solo patrons on weekdays, it’s usually groups of rowdy school children on a field trip or daytime outings from the local senior center.

He’s struck with curiosity at the mystery individual choosing to spend their afternoon here and contemplates hanging out in one of the rooms so he can bump into them. Now he knows he’s too bored for his own good, which means it’s time to crack down on studying once and for all. Besides, the figure has already disappeared into the room adjacent to the ticket desk.

He’s finding moderate success on his irregular verb conjugation assignment when a hand appears and slams his textbook shut. Shirabu yelps at the intrusion, almost falling backward out of his stool. He flails to keep himself upright.

"Ah, I found you! You didn't tell me you worked all the way in the back. I was walking around like an idiot," a familiar voice says, in English.

He doesn’t even have to register the voice to know that there is only one person who would be speaking English to him.

 _Semi_.

Warmth floods through him at the realization that, after three weeks of waiting, he’s getting his visit. Regardless, Shirabu isn’t going to let his enthusiasm show.

"The whole point of a museum is to wander, Semi," he says cooly. "So any idiocy you feel can be attributed to you just being you."

Semi's face scrunches into a frown. "If this is how you treat all your guests, I don't get why you still have a job."

When Shirabu doesn't respond, Semi starts investigating the desk set-up. He rifles through some brochures and flips a sign that says, "Please Talk to Me About the Art" sign up and down.

"Is there something you need," Shirabu asks, rubbing his temples. "It's rude to disturb me while I'm working."

Semi snorts. “You’re the one who asked me to come, and I believe I was promised a personal tour.”

“I don’t recall making such a promise. That doesn’t sound like me.” He knows damn well what Semi is talking about. Though the moment is hazy, he knows he told him to visit him at work, practically begged him to show. But after two weeks and no Semi, he assumed he had either forgotten or worse, chosen to reject the offer.

Semi narrows his eyes but doesn’t try to press him on the issue. He goes for a different approach. "It hardly looks like you're working at all," he says, gesturing at Shirabu's phone and open textbook.

Shirabu lets out a sharp exhale but doesn't reply. Semi fills the silence.

"So, uh what do you do here," he asks, fiddling with the "Please Talk to me About the Art" sign again.

"Well, I guess you could say I talk to people about the art," Shirabu replies dryly, but there's a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Semi's eyes narrow again. "Don't be an ass, I came here to support your interests."

Shirabu tenses and scrutinizes him, and Semi shifts under his gaze.

"God, you always get me with that look. Ok, I may have also happened to have a couple of hours to kill before class, and it’s gross outside," Semi confesses.

Satisfied with Semi’s honesty, he decides to move on. "Fine, if you’re so curious, my job is to discuss the art with patrons. I give them information about certain painting styles or the history of the piece. Sometimes, I talk to them about what they think the paintings mean."

"What they mean?"

"Yeah, like what they think the artist was trying to portray, or why they chose the imagery they did, or even how they feel when they look at the painting," Shirabu explains. "The curator believes this can enhance the patron's experience."

Semi runs his hand over his chin, absorbing what he's been told. Then, he laughs under his breath.

"Is there something funny about that," Shirabu asks, tilting his head slightly.

 "No. This just doesn't seem like your kind of thing, that’s all," Semi admits. "You’ve just never enjoyed talking about deep, abstract stuff. Oh, and feelings, especially feelings."

Shirabu furrows his brow, trying not to acknowledge the sting that his comment has. Though he’s well aware that he doesn’t like to engage with feelings, it doesn’t feel very good when Semi points it out. He doesn’t like being perceived as some as some emotionless robot. Under the table, his foot begins to bounce, and he pinches at the inside of his elbows to calm down.

Fortunately, Semi either chooses to ignore or doesn’t notice his anxiety. "So, am I getting my tour," he asks.

"A tour?" Shirabu offered Semi a tour, so he needs to deliver. The issue is that he’s never given a proper tour. It’s just not part of his job description.

“Tours aren’t part of my job description,” he explains.

"So, do you just sit here?"

"For the most part. The docents are the ones that give tours."

"Do-cent." Semi sounds out the word carefully. "What is that?"

"A docent is," Shirabu starts, then switches to Japanese. "Like a tour guide."

"Ah, I've never heard that word before," Semi says. "Please, Shirabu. You didn’t have to go back to Japanese. You literally could have just said tour guide." He looks bashful as he says this, and it’s a welcome change from his usually smug face.

"Ok, sorry," Shirabu says. He sometimes forgets Semi’s borderline obsessive need to speak to him in English.

"Thanks," Semi says. "You know how much this helps me with my course." He pauses, and Shirabu leans in. He’s never heard Semi expand his reasoning beyond wanting to pass his English class. "Plus, I like that we can talk, and none of our friends can understand us."

Our friends. It’s a small change in semantics, but it makes a big impact. At what point did their lives become so intertwined that they shared friends? It’s not an unpleasant thought, but it’s one he’ll revisit later.

"You do know many people speak English," Shirabu points out instead. "We’re the most fluent, but Kyoutani watches shows and movies in English all the time. It's really only Yahaba who hasn't caught up."

"Ah," Semi says, nodding. "I’ll have to be mindful of that in the future. No more talking shit in front of them."

Shirabu cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “We can definitely still talk shit.”

The two sit in silence for a moment, not looking directly at each other, but not avoiding eye contact either. The sound of distant footsteps echoes in the hallway. A strong gust of wind rattles the windows behind the desk. The light flickers overhead.

"Let’s go on that tour.”

Shirabu opens his mouth to give another half-hearted excuse but is interrupted before he can say anything.

"—And don't tell me 'it's not your job, or whatever other bullshit, because there is no one here right now. You have no excuse," he adds for good measure.

Defeated, Shirabu puts his textbook back into his bag and flips the sign on the desk to read "Be Back in 15 Minutes."

"Do we only have fifteen minutes," Semi asks.

"Typically, that's how long I'm allowed to spend talking to a person at a time so that everyone gets a turn," Shirabu explains. "But because you're a valued patron, I'll make an exception."

Semi smiles genuinely, and Shirabu can't help but smile, too.

✧✧✧

"Wow," Semi breathes, eyeing a colorful portrait of a beach. "I can't believe the artist made this entire picture out of dots."

"It's called pointillism," Shirabu explains. "An art technique that developed at the end of the impressionist period." He watches while Semi cocks his head back and forth, studying the piece more carefully. It’s endearing, with his grey and black hair, Semi reminds him of a snowy owl.

"Poin-til-lism," Semi says, enunciating each syllable. "I'll be sure to mention it at the next fancy party I attend."

Shirabu snorts. "Like you'd ever be on the guest list for one of those."

Semi feigns a pout and shoves Shirabu on the shoulder.

"But, if you were to find yourself at one of those parties," Shirabu starts again. "A more accurate description of the style would be neo-impressionism. The term pointillism was originally coined to mock the art."

Semi nods and scratches at his chin. "I think I'd rather just bring you along. I can't remember all of this myself." 

Shirabu's breath hitches and his eyes slide over to meet Semi's gaze. His face is neutral. Semi's ability to just say _exactly_ what he means has always caused him great irritation and confusion. In the past, Semi's matter-of-fact manner of speaking was the cause of many of the two's most significant fights in high school.

Lately, Semi's bluntness leaves Shirabu feeling like he's dancing on a tightrope—inelegant, and ready to fall at any moment—except instead of falling to the ground, Shirabu falls into the dark pit of overthinking. He isn't sure which fate is worse. Who _actually_ says what’s on their mind? What kind of game does Semi think he’s playing?

"Shirabu, do you think we can move on to the next room," Semi asks, interrupting Shirabu's spiraling thoughts. "I only have about an hour before my next class."

"Oh, sure," Shirabu says. "Follow me."

✧✧✧

"So, Semi," Shirabu asks, pointing to a painting on the wall. "What do you think this one means?"

Semi considers the piece; his eyes scan over the melting clocks set against a sparse landscape. It’s a picture that everyone should recognize, Shirabu thinks. He’ll definitely judge Semi if it doesn’t register with him.

Semi is making the owlish motions again. "I know I've seen this before, this is a famous painting," he asks, side-stepping Shirabu's question. "It's by some Spanish artist."

"This is Dali's _The Persistence of Memory_ ," Shirabu says. "But this piece is a recreation by a talented local artist. As you can probably guess, this museum can’t afford the real thing."

Semi hums an acknowledgment and continues to stare at the painting. He’s back to his head tilts, scrunching his face as he takes in every detail.

"So, what does it mean," Shirabu asks again.

"Is there a wrong answer to this question," Semi says. "I don't want you to pounce on me if I say something uncultured."

"Of course not, art is subjective," Shirabu says. “Though, that doesn't guarantee I won't make fun of your answer."

Semi narrows his eyes and huffs, but Shirabu can tell he is honestly trying to formulate his response. It takes some time, and he does his best to not just stare at Semi in anticipation.

"Well, the clocks are melting, so maybe it has something to do with time running out," Semi starts, uncertainty in his voice. "I’m guessing death. Final answer."

Shirabu nods. "Death is the most popular interpretation. So, nice going." While his question wasn’t meant to be a test, Semi wasn’t too far off with his concern about Shirabu pouncing on him for a weak answer. He’s tickled that Semi seems to be either interested enough or willing to feign interest in Shirabu’s work.

Semi laughs in disbelief. “Really? Maybe I should take your job. I'm a natural."

“Don’t get too full of yourself. As you may recall, I’m the one giving you the tour.”

Semi gives him a smug look, with just a hint of challenge. It’s a look that always excites Shirabu, and his gears start turning. “Ok Shirabu, since you’re such an expert, tell me a fact that will wow me.”

Shirabu doesn’t even need a beat to think. Semi isn’t a tough nut to crack. He knows exactly what to say to knock him off his feet. "Did you know some people say that the clocks in this painting were inspired by Campbert melting in the sun."

"What is Campbert?"

He braces himself for Semi’s reaction. "It's a type of cheese."

As expected, Semi wheezes then doubles over with laughter. Shirabu instinctively flits his eyes around, searching for spectators that he knows aren’t there. Semi’s laugh echoes through the room with no signs of stopping.

“Semi, control yourself,” Shirabu says firmly. There’s no one around to scold them for noise, but he feels a strong need to keep decorum anyway.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chokes out, wiping a tear from his eye. "So, you're telling me that this fucking masterpiece is inspired by melting fucking cheese? Art is so fucking weird." He claps a hand to his mouth and fights to hold back another fit of laughter.

"In small part. Though I do think in this case, cheese was not the sole inspiration." Shirabu trails off. “I hope.”

Semi falls silent, eyes glinting like he's on the edge of an important thought. Shirabu stares intently, encouraging him to reveal his musings.

After a brief pause, Semi manages to collect his words. "You know, not everything has to mean something, though. Some things just are."

Shirabu’s skin prickles at the statement. He believes, no, relies on the deliberateness of the universe. The idea of accepting things without rhyme or reason is too chaotic for Shirabu. He craves order and explanation, facts he can analyze, pick apart, and trace back to their roots. Even in art, it’s the objective measures: line, form, color, that attract him. In a past life, he would have viciously mocked Semi for his opposing perspective. But he’s has come to learn that his relationships tend to be more harmonious when his friends _aren’t_ exactly like him.

Today, and just for today, he decides to humor Semi.

"Maybe you're right,” he lies. “Some things just are."

✧✧✧

The museum isn’t as large as the ones in Tokyo, but it’s still an impressive size for an individual collector, so they pick up the pace to accommodate Semi’s need to get to class. Despite the slight rush, he tries to be a dutiful tour guide and give his guest tidbits of information as he sees fit. After they finish the main circuit, the two emerge back into the main hallway, and Semi checks his phone.

"How much time do you have before you need to head to class," he asks.

"About twenty minutes," Semi responds. "How many more rooms are there?"

"Just one. Would you like to see it?"

"I mean, I've taken up a lot of your time, shouldn't you get back to your desk?"

"My shift ended a half-hour ago," Shirabu says. What he doesn’t mention is that this is the most fun he’s had at work in a while. It’s not just the fact that he hasn’t had to deal with screaming kids, pushy tourists, or curmudgeonly visitors. He’s happy to have the opportunity to share this part of his life with someone. It doesn’t matter that today, this someone is Semi.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry. Do you have somewhere else you need to be?"

"No," Shirabu snaps quickly. Too quickly. He lowers his voice like he’s confessing a grave sin. “And I _suppose_ I've been enjoying your company here."

A splash of color appears on Semi’s cheeks, and he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. He feels himself heat at the sight.

"Well, I appreciate you taking me on such a thorough tour, I feel like a VIP."

He feels an impulse to stall Semi as long as he can, despite the fact that he knows he needs to get to class. Shirabu is not a stranger to being selfish, he can admit that, but being selfish with someone’s company is a feeling he’s unfamiliar with. That being said, it feels like he’s been getting acquainted with unfamiliarity as of late.

“Well, I can’t say I gave you a thorough tour unless you see everything," Shirabu insists. "Let’s go to the last room.”

✧✧✧

He guides them down the hallway to a room in the back. The room itself is dimly lit, with all the light being shone onto one huge painting, hanging squarely in the center. The only other object in the room is a bench positioned in front of the piece. In terms of setup, this is Shirabu’s favorite room. Their footsteps echo until they reach the bench and settle onto it.

They sit near each other, close enough that their knees brush as Shirabu relaxes into a comfortable position. Semi allows his leg to linger as Shirabu reflexively recoils. He hopes, but isn’t optimistic, that Semi didn’t notice his leg jerk away. He blames his jumpiness on the weird aura of the room and not the fact that he’s sitting alone with Semi in a dark, empty space. This isn’t something that’s bothered him before, it shouldn’t bother him now. Breathing deeply, he distracts himself by studying the painting.

The display is a vast landscape, seascape to be more precise. Rough, jagged bluffs give way to a rocky beach. It's a stormy day and turquoise waves crash against the shore, and grey clouds cover the sky. Some areas are darkened with pouring rain. The most striking point is a single ray of sunlight, illuminating the middle of the piece, and revealing boats arriving on the shore. The lighting of the room is intended to mimic the lighting of the painting. Dark, save for one pocket of soft light right over the painting.

"This is our special exhibition room," Shirabu explains after he realizes that he hadn’t provided any context to Semi. "We sometimes get paintings on loan from other museums."

Semi nods. "Where did this one come from?"

"The United States," Shirabu says, "From a museum in Washington."

"Like the capital?"

"No, there’s a state called Washington. It's in the northwest corner of the US, at the border of Canada."

"Ah."

Semi turns back to look at the painting, and Shirabu takes the opportunity to study him instead. He can tell that Semi likes this painting in particular. Though he seemed impressed by several of the works in the other rooms and wasn't afraid to express his distaste at some, he had yet to see the awe-struck face he’s making now. Shirabu can admit the painting is dramatic, but it’s hardly more than pretty scenery in his eyes, which is why he’s so thrown off by Semi's next question.

"So, what do you think this painting means, Shirabu," Semi asks.

Shirabu scrunches his nose and crosses his arms over his chest. "Aren't I supposed to be asking you that.”

"This is my favorite painting you've shown me," Semi says genuinely. "So, I want to know what you think."

"Honestly, I don’t think it means anything."

Semi stares at Shirabu, and he worries that maybe he’s offended Semi. He’s surprised when he nods, rather than arguing. "I agree with you, I don't think it means anything either."

"Then why did you ask," Shirabu says wryly.

"To see if you'd try to make up some interpretation of it or something. I don't know," Semi admits.

"Hm, not for this one. The only purpose of this painting is to be aesthetically pleasing."

"You don’t think there’s anything more?"

There's a slight pause as Shirabu finds his footing. In all the other rooms, he had been asking the questions and directing the conversation. Now, he’s in the hot seat, and he wants to make sure he doesn’t say anything foolish. His pride is on the line.

"Probably not," he says.

Semi looks at him expectantly. He wants him to go on, to elaborate or defend his choice.

"I guess, I just don't care for landscapes," he offers. "That's why I don't have much to say."

"You still have to admit it's beautiful though," Semi counters. "That must be worth something."

Shirabu wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Things that are beautiful for beauty’s sake have never been appealing to me." 

Semi gives Shirabu a long, deliberate look. "Me neither. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate them."

Shirabu feels his stomach bottom out, and he averts his eyes. He can’t look at Semi right now without dissolving on the spot. There he goes, just saying things again. He knows the words can’t possibly be about him, yet he’s affected as if they were. When he’s calm enough to meet Semi’s eyes, he finds that his face is, again, perfectly placid. He digs his nails into his palms so hard he knows there will be marks. He should not react. This shouldn't fluster him. _Semi_ shouldn't fluster him.

Yet here he is, worked up as hell, so where does that leave them?

He’s _too_ aware of how dimly lit the room is. How empty the museum is. How alone they are. How if something were to happen, the only witness would be this painting. His head swims with possibility.

He needs to get out of this room. Now. He needs to stand up and escort Semi out, maybe thank him for making his shift more bearable, maybe ask if he has weekend plans. He _does not_ need to do what he does next.

"Are you still talking about the art, Semi," Shirabu asks, his voice traitorously low. He looks up at Semi through his eyelashes, in that way he finds irresistible.

Semi moves marginally closer, and Shirabu finds himself moving in as well. It’s like a magnet pull, he can feel every alarm bell going off in his mind, but the draw is just too strong. They’re looking at each other now, _really_ looking at each other. The light hits Semi across his face, illuminating one side and leaving the other in shadow. Shirabu feels a strong urge to brush his fingers over Semi’s shaded cheek; it takes everything in his power to keep his hand latched on his thigh. Somehow, he knows they aren’t going to kiss, but the proximity and intensity of the moment keep it electrified. He wants to sit like this forever, hovering just over the edge of danger.

Semi clears his throat, shattering the moment into a million pieces. He taps his nose a few times, a quirk Shirabu recognizes as a sign of discomfort, rather than contemplation.

"Maybe I was," Semi says playfully. "Or maybe not. I'll never tell."

"Ugh," Shirabu groans. Leave it to Semi to make light of a serious situation. Still, the teasing allows Shirabu to collect himself enough to function again.

"You need to get to class," he says, tugging on Semi’s sleeve. "Let's go. I won't have you yelling at me for making you late."

"I wouldn't do that," Semi relents. "Ok, fine, maybe I would."

Shirabu and Semi walk to the front door, where they pause to allow Semi to bundle up again. At some point, the hail turned into a snow flurry. It’s beautiful to watch...from the comfortable confines of the heated museum. Shirabu doesn’t look forward to the walk home. As usual, he’s only half as prepared for the weather as Semi appears to be. 

"Good thing I wore my boots, today," Semi says, re-wrapping his scarf to cover his nose and mouth. Semi says something else, but his voice is lost in the thick fabric.

"You know I can't understand what you're saying, you ding-dong," Shirabu grumbles, but there’s no real edge to his tone.

Semi holds up his phone and taps it, _I'll text you_.

Shirabu nods and waves as Semi steels himself opens the door and disappears quickly into the flurry. As soon as Semi’s out, Shirabu slams the door shut, to avoid letting in the chilly air.

After signing out and packing his things, Shirabu finds himself walking through the snow back to his apartment. The flurry is even thicker now, coming down in wet, fluffy clumps. He curses himself for not being as clothed as Semi, even if the purple patterned scarf he was wearing was a real eyesore. He wishes that Semi had let him borrow _that_ scarf all those months ago. He could have “lost” it, then bought Semi a new one in a new, more sensible color.

As if on cue, his phone bleats, and Shirabu steps under a nearby bus shelter to check the notification. There's a missed call from Yahaba and seven texts. Five of the seven texts are also from Yahaba, asking where the fuck he is; what the fuck he's doing; whether he fucking died in the snow; and whether, if he wasn't dead, he could pick up a bottle of wine on the way home. _Oops_ , he mentally slaps himself, _I probably should have let him know that I was staying late_.

He’ll make it up to Yahaba by surprising him with that gross pink wine he likes. He was planning on talking to Yahaba tonight anyway, so he might as well make it into an evening he’ll enjoy. Shirabu isn’t sure how he will react to the news he has for him, and he wants to placate Yahaba as much as possible beforehand.

The other two texts are from Semi, and he debates whether to open them now or keep walking home. He's freezing standing still, and the storm seems to be getting worse. Now that he has an errand to run, he knows he should get a move on before stores start to close. Curiosity trumps rationality, though, and he finds himself hitting the open button.

 **[Semi 4:50]** : For what it’s worth, I wasn't just talking about the art.

 **[Semi 4:50]** : And you can interpret that however you want.

At first, the messages are confusing—until Shirabu recalls their reference point. When the realization hits, his heart jumps so violently that he claps his hand over his mouth out of fear it will come tumbling out. Semi’s words inspire a feeling he can’t place, or, more accurately, a feeling he refuses to name. He reads the texts over and over, so many times that the words start melting together, then, turn to nothing.

The feeling is gone.

Satisfied, he steps out from under the bus shelter and makes his way towards campus.

✧✧✧

“What did you bring me,” Yahaba asks. He’s sitting on the ground next to their TV table, clipping his nails.

“Nothing if you’re going to do that out here. I’ve told you how disgusting that is,” Shirabu says, watching a piece of nail fly through the air to land on the carpet. Yahaba is a clean roommate for the most part, but one of his vices is personal grooming in the living room. They’ve argued over it a million times before.

“I promise I’ll vacuum when I’m done,” Yahaba says. Shirabu is tempted to point out that last time he said he’d vacuum, he designated the task to Kyoutani, who doesn’t even “officially” live in their apartment.

There’s no real reason to bicker, so Shirabu reaches into the plastic shopping bag at his side, pulls out the bottle, and places it down on the table in front of Yahaba. He’s pleased to see his eyes light up on sight.

“You got rosé? But I thought we were going to share.”

“I’ll have a glass with you, don’t worry. Just let me change into something more comfortable.”

When he returns to the living room in fresh, dry clothes, Yahaba has opened the wine and poured them both glasses. He’s still on the ground and pats the spot next to him.

Shirabu feels a curl of anxiety for the conversation to come but knows it’s for the best. He respects Yahaba and his friendship, and part of being a good friend involves confiding. He’s grown emotionally from being around Yahaba, but he’s still not used to seeking and receiving support for his problems. Of course, he knows the best way to sharpen a skill is through practice.

“Let me see your hands,” Yahaba demands. “Have you been taking care of them?”

Shirabu removes his hands from the table and buries them in his lap. He’s not interested in a manicure. Being a good setter requires taking care of his instrument, but he’s been getting away with just a thorough tape job for years. He also may do some maintenance of his own; he doesn’t have to tell Yahaba that.

“They’re fine,” Shirabu says. Yahaba looks unmoved, then, without warning, he lunges and grabs his arm, ripping it out of his lap. He holds Shirabu’s hand in a vice grip, scrutinizing it. When he finds that his fingers aren’t the absolute trainwreck he imagined, he drops his hand down and slinks back to his spot. He gives Yahaba a smug smile. “What did I tell you.”

“Fine, fine. I won’t bother you anymore,” Yahaba says, defeated.

“It’s rude to make a promise you know you can’t keep,” Shirabu teases. He’s aware he shouldn’t be trying to rile Yahaba up and changes the topic to something lighter. “You’ll never guess who showed up at work today.”

Yahaba’s eyes widen at the suggestion of gossip. “Who?”

“Semi.”

“Oh, how was that?” Yahaba’s calm voice barely hides the enthusiasm rolling off him in waves. At this point, he’s practically vibrating. It’s funny seeing how invested Yahaba is in his friendship with Semi. He’s also well aware that said investment is predicated on the “scorching romantic tension” (not his words) between them. At this point, only a fool would be oblivious to the tension their relationship has, and Shirabu is no fool. That being said, Yahaba doesn’t need to point it out.

Against his best instincts, he tells Yahaba almost everything about the afternoon, softening the details of what happened in that last room and completely omitting the texts. There wasn’t much to say about them, anyway. Semi had started a new conversation thread about his boring 3D Modeling class before he could even respond. Even without the “juiciest” portion of the story, Yahaba smiles as he sips his wine, clearly enjoying every word. By the time Yahaba finishes interrogating him on every small detail, he’s made it through his first glass of wine and made a significant dent in his second. The sweet spot, Shirabu thinks; if he’s going to have his heart to heart, he has to strike now.

He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves. He reassures himself that he’s just overthinking things. “Can I talk to you about something?”

Yahaba looks concerned at Shirabu’s serious tone. “Yeah, always.” He shifts so that he’s facing him, body language open and inviting.

“Remember that night we met up with Watari at the bar for trivia?”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, for one, because you were blackout drunk,” Shirabu quips. Yahaba’s warm expression drops to deadpan, and he takes a long sip of wine, probably to swallow his retaliation. Hearing no protest, Shirabu assumes he wants him to continue.

“Anyway, I told you how I went to Tendou’s apartment to stay the night.”

“Yeah, you did.” He can feel Yahaba’s gears turning. He’s trying to anticipate the dramatic reveal of his story. Shirabu thinks it’s easy enough to guess where things are going and, even if he figures it out, he’s going to make Shirabu admit it out loud. The knot in his gut tightens, and he claws at his thighs under the table to keep himself grounded in the moment. Yahaba is staring at him intently. He decides to rip the discomfort off like a band-aid.

“Well.” He pauses. He can still back out now. “I slept with them.”

Yahaba’s face doesn’t change, and he slowly sets his wine down on the table. He blinks a few times, processing the information. Shirabu lets him, holding back a million different explanations, clarifications, and excuses.

“Who is them.”

“Well, it was Tendou, and Ushijima was visiting for the weekend, too. So, them.”

Yahaba’s right eye twitches. It’s a reflexive movement but instills fear in him nonetheless.

“And you slept with them.”

“Technically, yes. But we didn’t have sex,” he clarifies. The conversation is starting to feel eerily familiar.

Yahaba takes a long breath and lets it in a slow hiss. Shirabu finds himself leaning forward, hanging on his next words. He’s keeping his ordinarily expressive face in tight check, and he can’t get a good read on what he’s thinking, which serves to make him more panicked.

“Shirabu, why are you still doing shit like this,” Yahaba says, after an excruciating wait.

He came into the conversation with the expectation that Yahaba might give him some flak for waiting over a month to tell him about the night— nothing further than that. The two of them would have a laugh, and he would be absolved of the guilt of not telling Yahaba earlier. There was no part of him that anticipated this kind of response.

“Excuse me, what?”

“Guess that explains why you were so goddamn miserable when I found you. Do you _really_ think you’ve been making smart decisions?” 

Shirabu feels his skin prickle. Yahaba is pulling his bullshit “holier than thou” act. Which means the situation is going to get ugly. If the situation is going to get ugly, he’s not going to keep playing nice.

“Who are you to judge me, Yahaba.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m just saying—”

“Shut up,” Shirabu snarls, and Yahaba obeys, clamping his mouth shut. “You think you’re better than me because you’re in a fucking relationship. But you’re not.”

Unsurprisingly, this gets Yahaba fired up, too, because his hands are balled into fists at his side, and his teeth audibly clench. “Me being in a relationship doesn’t make me better than you. Me not constantly indulging my self-destructive habits does.”

The words are a slap to the face, and the prickle on Shirabu’s skin turns to a blaze. Yahaba blanches at the palpable shift in energy. He knows he’s gone too far with this one. It wouldn’t be the first time their fights have gotten nasty but, right now, Yahaba has stomped on his most frayed nerve.

“You always know what’s best for people, huh? Well, news fucking flash. You don’t,” Shirabu yells. He doesn’t care that he’s yelling. His first impulse was just to scream, so he’s already surpassing his expectations by using his words. 

“Maybe not, but you could at least try listening to what people have to say once in a while.”

Shirabu is already on his feet. This conversation is over, and he’s going to be the one to deliver the last blow. “Oh, so you can shame me about my choices? I respect myself too much for that.”

“Oh my god! No one is shaming you,” Yahaba calls as he retreats, but he doesn’t look back.

When he gets to his room, he hovers in the doorway. There’s still time to turn around and apologize. He’s said some cruel things, and Yahaba has, too. But they can talk this out, there’s no need for the awkwardness which is sure to follow. Their apartment is large, but not large enough to avoid each other sustainably.

“You know if you keep acting like this, you’re going to burn every bridge you have.”

“GOOD!” Shirabu doesn’t care. He never asked anyone to build a bridge in the first place.

He slams the door so hard that the frame rattles.

Outside, he hears a sniffle, then muffled crying. There’s a sound of retreating footsteps, and Yahaba’s door slams shut, too.

Shirabu doesn’t have the energy to even make it to bed, so he collapses on the floor, curling into himself for comfort. His mind is numb, short-circuited by the barrage of emotions he’s experienced through the day. He’s so stressed that he’s shaking all over, his body unequipped to handle everything he’s forcing it to process.

He grabs for his phone. He has ways to deal with this kind of thing. There are people he can call, ones who are all too willing to give him the empty, mindless pleasure he instinctively craves when it’s all too much.

Shirabu could do all that, but there are other options, too. Options that won’t throw him through the same loop of gratification and despair that he’s continually dragging himself back into. He's not ready to talk to Yahaba yet, they both need to cool down first. But he has other people who he trusts, and he’s been neglecting that fact for far too long. As Tendou said, it’s all about baby steps.

His fingers tremble as he scrolls through his contacts. He considers sending a warning text first, but he knows he’d lose his resolve before he could follow through. He hits “call.” The dial tone feels like an eternity, but at the last second, there’s a voice on the line.

“Shirabu? Is this a butt dial?”

Shirabu’s voice is wobbly; he hopes it’s not too noticeable. “No, Semi. It’s me.”

“You’re calling me.” There’s a pause. It’s understandable Semi is confused, they haven’t spoken over the phone since high school. “Is everything ok?”

“No.” His voice cracks.

Another pause. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No.” Yes. He thinks. But if Semi came right know, Shirabu knows he would break down, and he’s not quite ready to do that yet.

“Ok.” Semi is endlessly patient. Even in high school, Semi never snapped unless provoked. Shirabu has always respected that about him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Semi sighs, but doesn’t hang up. There’s a soft rustling sound, like someone settling onto the couch or into bed.

“Will you tell me about your day,” he asks.

Semi laughs quietly. “I spent a lot of my day with you.”

Shirabu flips onto his back and counts the cracks in the ceiling. “So, tell me about that, then.” He’s more relaxed now, and his voice is breathier than he intends.

He can almost feel Semi’s smile on the other line, and warmth blossoms in his chest. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for slogging through my long chapters. If you have a moment, I’d really love to hear what you think so far!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all! Welcome to the penultimate chapter. These last two were really fun for me to write, and I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> The book Shirabu is reading in this chapter is called: "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" (by Milan Kundera). I swear I didn't make up some strange elaborate summary for fic purposes.

The snow from the storm stays on the ground for almost a week, but on the seventh day the roads and sidewalks clear enough that it’s safe to walk around outside. While the temperature is still well below freezing, the sun shines brilliantly in the cloudless winter sky. Shirabu hears a near constant stream of chatter outside his window, as people emerge to enjoy even the most meager amount of warmth.

Despite the good weather, Shirabu elects to spend the day in his room, swaddled in blankets with a nice pot of tea. It’s the first day he’s had to himself in a while, and he intends to spend it fruitfully. A past Shirabu may have scoffed at the idea of spending a whole day doing nothing but, after recent events, time to decompress is necessary. He feels like he’s racked up more emotional wear and tear in the past few months than he has in almost twenty-two years of life. He understands the significance of his growth but laments that it has to be so damn tiring. Shirabu extends one arm from his blanket nest and grabs a book off his bedside table.

It’s a book that Ari recommended to him after he explained to her the strange dissonance he’d been feeling since his night with Tendou and Ushijima. Apparently, the book’s main character is caught between his love for his wife and his love of womanizing, trapped between true love and fleeting encounters. It’s hard to ignore _certain_ parallels to his own situation.

_“So, why should I read this?” Shirabu remembers asking.  They’re sitting in the campus coffee shop, enjoying some tea before their French class. Their table is right below a skylight on a sunny day, and Shirabu can feel its warmth on his skin. It’s his favorite spot for a reason._

_“Because I think you can relate to the main character in some ways,” Ari replies matter-of-factly. She looks down and stirs sugar into her tea. “You’re at a similar crossroads in your own life.”_

_Shirabu furrows his brows and crosses his arms over his chest. “What does that even mean? Why is everyone so cryptic around me lately?”_

_Ari giggles; it’s a delicate, tinkling sound that almost makes Shirabu forget his irritation. Almost. “Oh, Shirabu. It’s like we all know a secret about you, and you’re going to be the last one to figure it out.”_

_“Ah!” Shirabu scrunches into a weak glare, and his eyes flit to the salt shaker on the table._ I could throw salt in her tea, _he conspires_. _Instead, he slumps into his seat, letting out a dramatic huff. Ari is laughing even harder at his frustration, and Shirabu reels, feeling like he’s become the butt of some unknown joke among his friends._

_“Listen, don’t worry too much,” Ari reaches out and touches his arm. Her hand shakes from laughing, but she’s giving him an encouraging smile, “Read the book. Maybe it will give you some insight.”_

Shirabu runs his fingers over the cover, he enjoys the smoothness of the glossy paper, then opens it to the first page. The text is in English, and Shirabu makes a mental note to recommend the book to Semi if it ends up being worthwhile. Semi is always asking for new books to read in an effort to improve his English comprehension further.

He’s no more than twenty pages in when he hears a knock at the door. It’s a quiet knock, almost hesitant, like the person on the other side is worried about bothering him. It’s a far cry from Yahaba’s demanding knocks, or better yet, just throwing open the door. Though both of their bedroom doors have locks, they never use them.

Shirabu pulls off his covers and pads over to the door. He’s surprised to find Kyoutani on the other side. He’s dressed for a run, which is strange, given Kyoutani has recently been going out before the sunrise. He knows this because he sometimes wakes up to the muffled sounds of him and Yahaba getting ready to go. Then the not so muffled sounds of them going to back into their room to do something lewd. Then _actually_ leaving sometime later. Somehow, Shirabu always manages to fall back asleep during the lewd portion and is rudely awakened again at “sometime later.”

Kyoutani rubs his hand on the back of his neck, and his eyes drift away from Shirabu. He’s avoiding eye contact, which is typical Kyoutani behavior. “Do you want to go for a run?” he mumbles.

Shirabu is confused. In the past, he did his road work with Yahaba and Kyoutani but switched to his own schedule when he discovered he couldn’t keep up with either of them. Yahaba was already fast, and his height gave him long strides. Kyoutani was just an overall powerhouse and almost impossible to keep up with, even for Yahaba. On a good day, Shirabu always lagged at least couple hundred meters behind them.

“I, uh—are you sure you want me to run with you. Can’t Yahaba go?” Shirabu asks. He secretly hopes that Kyoutani will reconsider his offer and either defer to Yahaba or go alone. The situation seems strange, and Shirabu wonders if this is some kind of set-up. It reeks of Yahaba’s meddling, especially after their recent spat. Though they made up the evening of their fight, it wouldn’t be out of character for there to be a hint of a lingering grudge. At the same time, Kyoutani has always been above their antics. Kyoutani loves Yahaba, but he wouldn’t be so quick to participate in one of his schemes. Perhaps he doesn’t deserve his suspicion.

“Yahaba has a migraine.” _Okay, he does get those_. “And remember, I hurt my ankle at Wednesday’s practice? The trainer says I have to take it slow for a week.” _There’s the real reason_. Though he’d never admit it, Kyoutani refuses to run alone, because a lot of his motivation comes from competition. He runs with Yahaba because he knows that he's faster. Today, he wants to run with Shirabu because he knows that even in his weakened state, he’ll dust him.

The earnest look on Kyoutani’s face is persuasive, and Shirabu has no real excuse not to go for a run. They haven’t been able to practice this week after the heavy snow caused a serious leak in the gym’s roof. However, Coach would not be pleased to hear that he spent all week camped out inside. “Alright, give me five minutes to get changed.”

Kyoutani nods once, and there’s a glimmer of excitement in his amber eyes. Shirabu closes the door and begins to mentally prepare himself for a run. This wasn’t in his plans for today, but he knows a little activity won’t hurt. Recently, he’s relished exercise; when his heart pounds against his chest, it reminds him that it’s still there. He throws on leggings and a couple of upper layers and meets Kyoutani in the living room. He’s standing by the door like a dog ready for a walk, and Shirabu stifles a snort at the mental image.

When they get outside, Kyoutani is ready to go immediately, but Shirabu forces them to stretch on the steps of the building. “Not only is it extremely cold out here, but you’re hurt, too. Do you want your injury to heal or not,” Shirabu scolds.

After Shirabu feels they’re adequately warmed up, he allows Kyoutani to set the pace, and they start a course through campus. He’s not lying when he says his injury has slowed him down, but Shirabu still feels himself begin to fall behind as they travel along the winding path through the outskirts of town, into a nature preserve. The preserve has a paved trail that travels through meadows, ending at a small lake. He knows the route, the team runs it on their easy days, and he’s happy Kyoutani picked it for their excursion. He doesn’t try to talk on their run at all, which Shirabu is thankful for.

Soon, he finds himself drifting into the sweet spot of a runner’s high, and everything around him fades except for Kyoutani’s form ahead of him, leading the way. He eases into that feeling, and before he knows it, they’re running back along that winding path up towards campus. Before they get all the way back, though, Kyoutani slows his pace to a walk. It’s a sudden change, one that Shirabu doesn’t notice fast enough, so he slams into his back. The impact doesn’t budge his solid form, and he turns nonchalantly, as if noticing a fly landing on his shoulder.

"You ok there?”

Shirabu shakes his head to reorient himself. “Ah, Kyoutani. What happened? Is your ankle bothering you,” Shirabu asks, concern in his voice.

“I’m fine. The run made me hungry, though. Can we grab something to eat?” Kyoutani is eyeing the convenience store, and Shirabu knows he probably wants to get one of the chicken snacks he likes so much. He’s open to the idea, he hadn’t had breakfast before the run, and Shirabu recognizes that if he goes home now, he’ll end up showering and taking a power nap—and not eating until much, much later.

“Sure.”

✧✧✧

After they get their own snacks, Shirabu leads them to a small park behind the store to eat. It’s a hidden gem, and Shirabu frequents this park quite often, as he’s guaranteed to avoid running into any of his classmates. The park itself is unkempt, with overgrown foliage and crumbling stone benches. In one corner, what looks to be a shrine sits unused. In fact, the only sign that people visit the park is the presence of multiple windchimes and other charms hanging in a large ash tree right in the center. Shirabu has never encountered another person in the times he’s visited, but each time he’s there, there’s a new addition to the collection.

“Mm’how do you even know about this place,” Kyoutani says through a mouthful of chicken, “It’s got kind of creepy vibes.” He’s pacing around the ash tree, suspiciously eyeing the numerous charms hanging from it.

Shirabu laughs, running his hand over the cool visage of one of the benches, “I found it the very first time we did this run. I fell behind everyone else and couldn’t see the turnoff for the preserve. I somehow ended up here.”

Kyoutani makes a noise of acknowledgment, but his attention is fixated on one of the windchimes. He reaches out to touch one of the glass rods, and windchime rings softly. He recoils as if he didn’t expect it to make a sound at all. It’s an endearing moment, one Shirabu wishes Yahaba could be there to see.

Eventually, the two settle on the bench. It’s not particularly comfortable, as it’s backless, but the ground is wet from the melting snow. Shirabu unwraps his sandwich and takes a few hesitant bites. It’s bland, but tolerable, just what he expects out of convenience store cuisine. They sit in silence—Kyotani is snarfing down his second chicken snack—and Shirabu takes the opportunity to stare up at the sky. It’s a pale shade of blue now, and he sees fluffy clouds floating by.

“I wonder if it will rain,” Shirabu says. “Or maybe even snow again.”

Kyoutani looks up at the sky for a moment, then shakes his head, “It won’t. Those are cumulus clouds. They don’t usually make rain. But there are some ugly ones over in the east.”

“Eh, Kyoutani. I didn’t know you knew so much about meteorology.”

A flush of color rises to his ears, “I had to take a science class outside of the zoology track. So I took an earth sciences seminar. I really liked it.”

Shirabu nods and the two fall quiet again. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, and he returns to cloud watching. The wind chimes tinkle as a breeze passes through the park, accompanying the soft rustling of the ash tree’s bare branches. It’s soothing and ambient, and Shirabu zones out, his thoughts drifting like the clouds in the sky. If only everything could be this peaceful but, as Shirabu knows all too well, there’s always another storm on the horizon.

“Hey Shirabu,” Kyoutani says. He jumps at the mention of his name and runs a hand through his bangs to focus himself back on Earth.

“Yes, uh, sorry. Are you ready to go?”

“No, I wanted to talk to you about something,” Kyoutani responds neutrally. Shirabu scrutinizes him, looking for some hint as to where this conversation is going. Normally, he’s the easiest of his friends to read, but there’s no expression on his face or in his body language. He shifts uncomfortably, remembering Yahaba’s unreadable expression a week ago, and where that led them.

Kyoutani cocks his head. “Unless you have somewhere else you need to be,” he adds.

“What would you like to talk about,” Shirabu says, his tone is deceptively calm.

“Has Yahaba...” Kyoutani pauses for a moment, and his brow knits; he’s searching for the right words. “...ever told you about how we got together?”

 _What the fuck_? Shirabu thinks to himself but does his best not to convey the sentiment on his face. He puts a hand under his chin to signify thought (and buy him time) and recalls what he knows about their relationship. Yahaba and Kyoutani had been together since the beginning of college, and he knew that they had been dating for about...six months then? He also knew that at one point, they weren’t so keen on each other. Though, for some reason, he can’t remember ever being told why. Even so, he is hesitant to play along. Though Kyoutani seems genuine enough, Shirabu feels like there might be an agenda behind this conversation.

“He’s told me a little about the timing of it, but not so much more as to the specifics. Why?”

“I want you to listen,” Kyoutani says, there’s a determined glint in his eye again, like he’s about to deliver sage advice to Shirabu. Kyoutani’s delivery is rough but, at this point, his curiosity has the best of him. He has no choice but to indulge it.

“Ok.”

“Yahaba hated me when we first met,” Kyoutani starts. “And, quite frankly, I deserved it.” Shirabu nods, he remembers hearing this.

“When I joined the Seijoh team, a lot was going on with me, I was...dealing with some shit. It’s not an excuse, more of an explanation. I was quick to take things out on people.” Kyoutani looks down in his lap and picks at the skin on his hands, and his voice softens into what sounds like a remorseful tone. “Especially Yahaba.” Kyoutani stops and blinks rapidly; his eyes dart over at the tree, then up at the sky, then down at the bench. For a brief moment, Shirabu wonders if he’s fighting back tears, which would be strange, but no stranger than the situation already is. His theory is disproved when Kyoutani continues, his voice steady.

“I was cruel to him, even though he always did his best to support me, despite pressure from the team to turn his back. But something about Yahaba brought out the worst in me. It’s like—I wanted him to hate me, so I did things to push him away. Once, I shoved him so hard at practice that he fell.”

Shirabu can’t suppress the look of discomfort on his face at Kyoutani’s admission. He hadn’t heard any of this before, and he now understood why Yahaba had not detailed this portion of their relationship. It would be easy to misinterpret it if you didn’t know them well enough.

“I was ashamed of myself, of course. I’m disgusted when I think back on that, but it was easy for me to stay in one place, you know? To be the aggressive person everyone feared. You probably know they called me Mad Dog.”

“I did,” Shirabu says.

The sun starts to dip behind the buildings in the distance, and the park is cast in shadows, giving the scene an ominous aura. Even in the dimming light, Shirabu can see grey clouds appearing overhead. He feels a sense of urgency, knowing that another storm is approaching. However, he can’t bring himself to cut Kyoutani off, not with how honest he’s being. He notices Kyoutani is waiting for him to give him permission to continue.

“So what happened next?”

“I came to realize slowly, by myself and with some uh, help from others, that Yahaba brought out the worst in me because there were, uh, aspects of myself that I wasn’t ready to deal with.”

Shirabu’s eyes light up in understanding, “You had feelings for Yahaba.”

Kyoutani blushes, and it’s cute to see that even the mention of it can still rile him up after two and a half years. “I did, probably had ‘em from the very beginning.” Shirabu feels himself warming at this admission. It’s so genuine. He can’t help but wonder if anyone ever felt this way about him. Then, he remembers how difficult of a person he was in high school, and the thought dissipates as quickly as it appears.

“So what did you do,” Shirabu urges, the clouds are getting closer, so close he can smell the heavy scent of rain in the air. Kyoutani seems unfazed.

“I told him how I felt.”

Shirabu’s eyes widened, “Just like that?”

Kyoutani nods. “Well, this was at the beginning of our third year. We had been friends for some time, maybe just under a year before that. So it’s not like we were on shitty terms anymore.”

“And did he accept your feelings then?” Shirabu asks. He remembers that Kyoutani and Yahaba didn’t get together until almost the end of their third year, around the time they both learned they would be able to attend the same university.

“No, he didn’t. He told me ‘right now, we’re still walking on two different paths, come back when we’re on the same one.”

Shirabu laughs at that, _how very Yahaba of him_ , he thinks. “So, when did you decide that your paths, uh, converged?”

Kyoutani scratches his forehead. “Well, I knew I had to make some serious changes to myself before I could be with him. And it was hard as shit, but I had lots of help. We spent that year getting to know each other without fighting and, eventually, things just kind of happened for us.”

Shirabu stares at Kyoutani, waiting for him to reveal some moral to his story, some deep truth beyond the genesis of his best friend’s relationship. Instead, Kyoutani looks back blankly, as if the conversation never happened at all, as if he is expected to suddenly just _know_ something within himself. He feels no different. In the distance, there’s a clap of thunder, signaling that it’s too late to escape, the storm is nearly overhead. Kyoutani snaps his eyes to the sky, and a look of renewed focus appears on his face.

“Ok, it looks like you missed the point. So, let me spell it out for you,” he turns now to face Shirabu. “What’s it going to take for you to make a fucking change?”

Shirabu scoffs. “You told me a whole story just to ask me that?”

“Well, yeah,” Kyoutani explains like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I couldn’t just start there. You needed context.”

He feels his skin heat, as he realizes that he’s been trapped. It seems to be happening a lot to him lately. “Did Yahaba put you up to this?” he says, not even attempting to hide the irritation in his voice.

“In part, yes,” Kyoutani says, locking eyes with Shirabu. His display of irritation has become a challenge. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t think you could use the advice.”

“And what advice is that?”

Though he anticipates it, he still jumps when Kyoutani’s voice raises. “That you need to grow the fuck up and stop sabotaging your own happiness. It’s creepy and sad how much you like to punish yourself. Yahaba can’t figure out why, and it really fucking eats away him sometimes. The little fight you had last week? Yeah, he’s been worried sick since. But you probably didn’t consider that, because you’re too wrapped up in your own bullshit.” His voice is laced with frustration like Shirabu’s had this intervention a long time coming.

Shirabu’s mouth opens and closes in disbelief. _How dare he_ , Shirabu fumes, who the fuck does Kyoutani think he is? For a moment Shirabu thinks about slapping him and, in that same moment, considers running. He knows that would only prove Kyoutani’s point. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek and tries to stay collected. He can get through this; he doesn’t have to lose his cool. Another clap of thunder bursts overhead, this time, even louder than the last.

“All this because I’m not dating the person Yahaba thinks I should, eh? Pathetic,” Shirabu spits. He knows he’s going to regret the words later and, right now, he’s playing with fire. Yahaba’s temper is nothing compared to Kyoutani’s, and he does not take well to negative comments about his partner. The risk doesn’t scare him. He’s so goddamn angry, he wants to rip Kyoutani apart. Just because he’s dating Yahaba doesn’t mean he knows _anything_ about him.

“It goes beyond that, and you know it. I don’t care who you date or who you _fuck_.” His words drip with venom. “But if you think for one second that people don’t notice and care how your choices are affecting you, then you’re not as smart as everyone says. It’s like you try to be sad by making the same shitty choices over and over.”

Shirabu is seething. “Well, I’m terribly fucking sorry that I’m inconveniencing people, perhaps it would be better if I just took my ‘sadness’ elsewhere,” he snarls. He’s locked eyes with Kyoutani now, too.

“No,” Kyoutani’s back straightens so that he looms over him, and Shirabu can see him bristling. A chill runs down his spine. “It would be _better_ if you just let people fucking care about you for once in your life. Because Yahaba is right, if you keep this shit up, you will be alone.”

Shirabu looks at Kyoutani, undaunted. That line may have rattled him last week, but it’s not going to work a second time. He’s going to have to get more creative than using the same,cheap ultimatum Yahaba gave him. What he doesn’t realize, is that Kyoutani hasn’t delivered his finishing blow.

“And we both know you don’t actually want that.”

The words cool his boiling blood, like snuffing a candle. His shoulders, tense with the promise of a fight, sag until he’s practically folded into himself. There’s a hollowness in his chest so present that it almost hurts, and Shirabu wonders for a moment if he might, in fact, be dying. But he knows better, the pain means Kyoutani’s message has gotten through to him, and it packs a serious punch. It’s the thing Shirabu has been struggling against all this time, now laid bare for him; he can’t hide from it anymore.

Shirabu doesn’t want to be alone. He’s never wanted to be alone. He’s afraid of being alone, even after spending years paradoxically driving people away, keeping even his close friends at arm’s length. He wants to be better, but it’s hard to break a habit— especially one so ingrained in his sense of self that it feels like instinct.

The lines soften in Kyoutani’s face; he’s made his point and recognizes it’s time to back off. Kyoutani might be tough, but he’s fair and never unnecessarily heavy-handed, at least not anymore. “Look,” his voice diffuses with every word. “I’ve been in the spot you’re in. You’re dealing with your own demons. They’re different than mine, but demons nonetheless. I can tell you from what I’ve learned is that this goes one of two ways: you can either stay in the pit with them and be miserable, or you can climb like hell to get out.”

Finally, the rain starts to fall. It’s light at first, but they both know a deluge is on its heels. Shirabu’s fist clenches and unclenches. It’s all too much, this is all too much, and he’s hit with the overwhelming urge to cry. His chest trembles with the threat of a sob, but the tears don’t come. The urge settles as a dull tightness in his throat. For the second time this week Shirabu is completely and utterly emotionally spent. Kyoutani is patient, scrutinizing him, waiting. Shirabu knows he won’t be satisfied without a response.

“I-I’m trying,” Shirabu says, but his voice barely rises above a whimper. He lowers his head, and a drop of rain rolls down his forehead to drip off his nose. He’s surprised when he feels a hand rest on his back.

“I know, but you have to try harder.”

✧✧✧

The walk home is quiet but less awkward than Shirabu anticipates. They’re both walking quickly to stay one step ahead of the rain, and Kyoutani spoke his piece, so there’s nothing left to be said. He’s also thankful for the fact that Kyoutani isn’t one for small talk, Shirabu has a lot to process and, unlike other times, he finds he’s not shutting down on the spot. Instead, he’s left with a sense of cautious optimism. Kyoutani’s story resonated with him in many ways. Though their unhealthy coping methods are different, the root of their issues is similar: a fear of intimacy, an unwillingness to accept aspects of themselves, and a stubborn resistance to change. But, if Kyoutani was able to find happiness, well, maybe there’s hope for him, too. 

When they get back to the apartment, Kyoutani thanks him for the run, then disappears again to Yahaba’s room, likely to report back on the success of his intervention. Shirabu follows through with his original plans and takes a long, hot shower before returning to his bed to rest. Even though he couldn’t keep up with Kyoutani’s pace, he did run faster than usual. There’s a pleasant ache in his legs that makes laying down feel all the more worthwhile. He’s earned this. After a few minutes of relaxing, he’s energized enough to pick up his discarded book and open it to where he left off. It’s still early in the evening, and Shirabu wants to try to plow through as much of it as he can before real life hits. Once the snow melts, school, work, and volleyball will dominate his free time again.

He’s at page fifty when his phone rings from somewhere in the bed. He considers letting it ring through to voicemail, but an urge deep inside him insists that he needs to take the call. He rifles through his blankets and manages to hit “answer” at the last second.

“Hello,” he says, panting.

“Hey Shirabu,” Semi says. “Wait, why are you breathing so heavily. Stop. It sounds obscene.”

Ever since he called Semi after his fight with Yahaba, he’s been calling every other day or so. Sometimes, he has a legitimate topic he wants to discuss. Other times, it’s clear he’s calling just to talk. Shirabu doesn’t mind either way.

“You wish,” Shirabu teases. “But I’ll have you know I tore apart my whole bed, just to answer your call.”

“Oh wow, how flattering.”

“Well, don’t get too excited. I thought it might be someone important.” Shirabu grins, messing with Semi never gets old.

Semi makes a loud, frustrated noise into the receiver, but it’s all in good fun. Semi enjoys their banter just as much as Shirabu. It’s the one constant in their relationship. “Ok, little brat. What are you up to right now.”

“I just got back from a run with Kyoutani, now I’m just reading a book.”

“You ran with Kyoutani? Woof. You must be exhausted.”

Shirabu cocks an eyebrow. He’s not sure if the “woof” is in reference to the fact that Kyoutani is a known speed demon or his high school nickname. He decides not to ask, some things are best left a mystery.

“I’m a little winded, I guess. What are you up to?”

“Just doing some homework. I’m working on a problem set for my physics class.”

Rough. He’s seen Semi pull his hair out over those damn problem sets before. Sure, his major can be tough sometimes, but he’d rather write a thirty-page paper than do even one of Semi’s assignments, that’s how scary they are. It’s too bad that physics is a requirement for the architecture program; if Semi doesn’t pass the course, he won't be able to graduate. Still, Shirabu feels bad watching him get so wound up over math.

“Do you want to bring your work over and sit with me, for moral support?”

“Really?” Semi’s voice is chipper like he was waiting for the invitation the whole time. “That would be awesome. Can I come now?”

“Yeah, the door will be unlocked. Just come right in.”

There’s a lot of rustling and the sound of a chair being scraped on the floor. From what Shirabu can hear, Semi is taking “now” very seriously.

“You know, you shouldn’t leave your door unlocked.” Shirabu rolls his eyes, this is the millionth time Semi has issued that warning. Besides, leaving the door unlocked is more convenient than having to dig around for the apartment keys every time he comes home.

“Thanks, Mom! I’ll see you when you get here.”

✧✧✧

Semi shows up ten minutes later, which is odd, because their apartments are at least a fifteen-minute walk away. He wants to call Semi out for hurrying, but there’s no pink in his cheeks or sweat to indicate a hustle. Maybe Shirabu is just slow.

“Do you want to sit at my desk,” he offers. “I don’t know what would be most comfortable.”

Semi eyes the spot next to him on the bed but opts to set up his things up on the desk. He’s sure to make a big, dramatic deal about moving the clutter of books and papers to clear a spot for himself. It often comes as a surprise, but Shirabu has never been meticulous about tidiness. Sure, he likes to be clean; however, putting things in their proper spot has never been important to him. It works out well because he’s often so busy that he wouldn’t have the time to be organized even if he wanted.

Once Semi gets situated, he starts on his assignment, and Shirabu opens up his book for a third time today. He hopes that there won’t be any more distractions. With Semi in his room and Yahaba and Kyoutani out for the night, his bases seem to be covered. Some time passes, and the only noise in the room is the turning of pages and the rapid scratching of Semi writing. Eventually, Shirabu gets bored of reading and crawls over to the edge of his bed, where he can watch Semi work.

He’s deep in focus; Shirabu can tell by the way Semi’s eyebrows are furrowed, and his tongue peeks out the side of his mouth. He’s glaring so hard at his paper, it looks like he’s trying to intimidate the problems into solving themselves. But Shirabu knows better, Semi is a force of nature when he’s on a roll. From the looks of things, he’s already about halfway through the questions, and it’s only been about an hour. After a couple of minutes, Semi realizes he’s being watched and uses the disruption as a natural break. He scoots back from the desk to stretch and yawn.

“How’s the book so far, Shirabu.” Semi asks, cracking his knuckles in a way he knows Shirabu hates. The popping sound makes him squeamish.

“I’m bored,” he says honestly. The plot is way too abstract for his taste, and the main character is an insufferable ass. He’s offended that Ari would see any resemblance between the two of them, even if Shirabu is (occasionally) an insufferable ass himself.

“You’re going to be upset if you don’t finish.”

He’s got a point, but Shirabu is less concerned about his own feelings and more worried about earful he’ll get from Ari if he admits that he didn’t read _her recommendation_. “I still have over 150 pages to go. Maybe I’ll just look up the ending online.”

“Now, now, where’s the fun in that? Don’t tell me you’re giving up,” Semi teases.

“Ugh fine.” Perhaps he can give it one last try, if for no other reason than to avoid Ari’s wrath. “How’s your homework?”

Semi scrutinizes his paper. “I think it’s going ok. I should be done in the next hour or so. But I have a chapter to read before tomorrow as well.”

“Oh.” That’s disappointing, Shirabu hoped they would be able to do something not related to school tonight. A few nights ago they had discussed watching some psychological thriller, a genre they both enjoy. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thanks.” Semi studies him as if sensing his dampened mood. “Sorry for all the work. It’s nice to be here, though. Much better than the library. The freshmen ruin everything, they’re always so goddamn loud.”

“You were a freshman once. You should be more understanding.”

“Oh, like you have room to talk. Didn’t you _just_ get in trouble for making one of your teammates cry.”

Shirabu huffs and rolls his eyes. It wasn’t his fault that the first-year setter couldn’t take constructive criticism. Back at Shiratorizawa, everyone was a hardass. They had to be to survive under Coach Washijou’s iron fist. _Maybe_ he’ll apologize next practice—maybe. For now, he doesn’t have a cheeky response, so he decides it’s best to let Semi gets back to his homework.

While Semi chips away at his assignments, Shirabu manages to finish the book. It’s a dismal ending all around. The insufferable main character and his wife die in a car accident, while his mistress survives to recount his life from a sleazy bar. He’s not sure what lesson he’s supposed to glean from that. If he keeps sleeping around, he’ll get hit by a car, only to be memorialized by his latest lover (or, for him, lovers)? It wouldn’t be the worst way to go. He scoffs at the idea of Tendou and Ushijima waxing poetic about Shirabu’s short life. Now that would be one hell of a eulogy.

Ok, he’s being obtuse. The real point of the story is a lot more simple. When it comes to love and sex, one has two choices: lightness and weight. Lightness is sleeping around, having affairs, avoiding emotional intimacy. “Weight” is making connections, enduring relationships, and falling in love. It’s stability, consistency, and deep fulfillment, all at the cost of romantic freedom. Shirabu assumes that the purpose of him reading the book was to prompt him to make that choice for himself.

He doesn’t feel any strong impulse to consider the question. In all honesty, the book didn’t give him any insight that Yahaba and Kyoutani hadn’t pounded into him—and at least they were direct, not some convoluted moral weaved into a meandering 300 plus pages. If Ari wanted to get her point across, she could have just yelled in his face like the rest of his friends. She clearly doesn’t know how to perform a proper intervention, and he will _not_ be recommending this book to Semi.

He will, however, brag to Semi about finishing it. He’s about to open his mouth when he realizes that he hasn’t heard a peep from him in a while.

Oh.

Shirabu’s been so absorbed with his reading, he didn’t notice that Semi fell asleep. He looks peaceful, almost ethereal with his face illuminated by the pale yellow light filtering through the window. At some point, he migrated to the floor, and he’s leaning against Shirabu’s chest of drawers with his textbook still open on his lap. Shirabu slides off his bed and pads over to him. He picks up the book and places it on top of his desk next to Semi’s completed assignment. He’s unsure what to do next. He could leave Semi as is, but the thought doesn’t sit well with him. Semi would never leave him to sleep propped up against a wooden surface.

He determines he needs to do something; the jury is still out is what. He crouches down next to Semi, careful to avoid waking him. He wonders if he can somehow salvage the position he’s in with the help of a strategically placed pillow and blanket. His neck is bent at an angle that has to hurt, and his arms are wrapped tightly around his middle. It doesn’t take long to realize there’s nothing he can do and no way he can let him stay like this. He tip-toes back over to his bed and tosses his favorite pillow and blanket onto his area rug. It’ll be comfortable enough for one night, and they’ve slept on worse before. When he’s done, he returns to retrieve Semi.

“Hey,” Shirabu whispers. Semi's response is a light snore.

“Heeeey,” he tries again, this time gently poking at Semi’s forehead. It takes a few taps until he jolts, and Shirabu jumps back in fear that he may have been a smidge too bold in his tactics.

“’m here,” Semi mumbles. His eyes are half open, and Shirabu is not convinced that he is actually awake.

Shirabu grabs Semi’s wrists and helps clumsily pull him to his feet. He tries to wrap an arm around him for support, but with their height difference and Semi acting as dead-weight, he’s difficult to handle. “Come on, let’s go lay down.”

“Wha-wha are we doing,” Semi says groggily.

“Shhh, it’s ok, just walk with me.” He opts to lead Semi by the hands and coaxes him into his bed. When he’s managed to get him situated, he covers Semi with his duvet. He makes a happy coo when he’s tucked in and stretches his arms out from under the blanket in a hugging motion. “Kenjirou. C’mere,” he murmurs. Shirabu’s heart flutters. It’s not the first time Semi has called him by his given name, but he’s never heard it spoken in this context. It’s painfully endearing and painfully tempting, yet he can’t bring himself to take the offer. Sleeping with Semi tonight would be a shortcut to intimacy, one he’s taken too many times before. He knows from experience that most shortcuts lead to nowhere.

“Not tonight,” Shirabu whispers. He’s humming with energy and allows himself to briefly smooth a hand over Semi’s hair, satisfying his unexpected ache for contact. His hand quivers as he cards through his ash blonde strands all the way to the charcoal tips. “But soon.”

Semi whines and flips away, snuggling into his pillow and within seconds, Shirabu hears the soft sound of his snoring again. Instead of being annoyed by it, Shirabu finds it to be soothing, like a cat’s purr. He settles onto the ground, shifting a bit before finding a position that doesn’t hurt his back. He ponders what would happen if he were to just slide into bed with Semi. It is, after all, his bed, and he’d be much more comfortable there. His already sore muscles are going to be even more painful after sleeping on the ground. Plus, It’s not like they haven’t slept in close proximity before at training camps and hotel rooms. The thought of curling up with Semi is pleasant. Hell, Shirabu is done running circles around his feelings—it’s more than pleasant. He wants it more than anything right now. The only reassurance is his spoken promise, “soon.”

Though his mind is racing, his body is exhausted, and his eyes start to droop of their own accord. He checks on Semi one last time. He’s flipped again to face him, his face slack with sleep. His mouth hangs open, and Shirabu knows he’s probably drooling all over his pillow. Gross, he thinks fondly. From what he remembers, Semi is a restless sleeper, right now one of his arms is hanging off the bed, his hand open and inviting. Shirabu’s not sure if he’s over-tired or just desperate, but he finds himself reaching out and, with some clever maneuvering, laces their fingers together.

He’s aware it’s cheating, holding hands with Semi in his sleep before they’ve even had a chance to, well, whatever comes next. Shirabu has never made it this close to a relationship before, from here on out he’s exploring uncharted territory. He tries to slip his hand away when he feels an unexpected squeeze trapping it in place. He’s sure it’s just a reflex, but he doesn’t want to wake Semi by struggling from his grip. So, he tries a different approach. He slides over to where their fingers are joined and nudges his cheek against the back of Semi’s hand. As expected, it detaches from his own to trace uncoordinated circles on his face. Shirabu sighs, the contact feeling even better than he imagined when he stood outside of his apartment building, running Semi’s scarf over his cheeks. This goes on for a few minutes until Semi comes dangerously close to poking his eye out. At that point, Shirabu realizes the magic is over, it’s time for both of them to get some sleep.

He reluctantly pulls away, but the warmth from Semi’s hand remains even as he cuddles into his blankets. His eyes flutter closed. He sits for ten, maybe fifteen minutes but sleep doesn’t come. He’s restless for something; he’s not sure what. Perhaps he’ll have a name for it next time he sees Semi. Or the time after that. Or a month from now. There’s no hurry, the way Shirabu sees it, they have all the time in the world to figure it out.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here you are. You've journeyed far, but providence is in sight!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jump on in, I hope you're in the mood for love. 
> 
> P.S.: Here's the song playing in Shirabu's bedroom [[if i ever feel better-phoenix]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJp3kVelU3c)

Semi has a big project for his 3-D modeling class due on Friday, which means Shirabu doesn’t get to see him until that evening. He’s grateful for the small break. It’s not that he wants to avoid Semi, honestly, but it is nice to have some time to process all of the things he’s thinking and feeling. Of course, as anyone could guess, he doesn’t end up attempting to process anything. But this time, rather than a decision based on aggressive emotional repression, he simply believes that it would be most prudent to see what happens next, rather than make speculations and assumptions that may end up biting him in the ass later.

Instead, he decides to take the week to focus on himself. He’s able to complete all of his homework and do next week’s readings. He performs well at volleyball practice, so much so that his hard work is acknowledged both by the third-year captain and the coach. Shirabu might prefer to keep his composure, but he’s not immune to praise. He swells with pride when his improvements are noticed because while he’s naturally gifted in academics when it comes to athletics, it feels like he has to work twice as hard as his peers just to keep up.

His most significant accomplishment is running with Yahaba and Kyoutani. He does his best to push himself a little more, and on his third day of road work, he finishes just a few paces behind Yahaba. He’d be more proud of himself, if he wasn’t dry heaving into a bush before Yahaba can even comment on how much faster he’s gotten. He decides to resume running on his own after that.

The most important thing he learns from their time apart is how interwoven Semi is in his life. He’s the first person he wants to text after he sees a first-year trip in the student union. He recites Semi’s order in his head along with his own at the campus coffee shop. He sits by his phone waiting for his evening call, even though he knows it won’t come. It’s just a force of habit. The worst part, though, is that he talks about him incessantly. Ok, maybe not incessantly, but at least three people have pointed out that Semi come up in conversation more than usual.

_“I just saw an article about a building they’re putting downtown. The whole thing is going to have mirrored windows. Isn’t that cool,” Ari says. They’re supposed to be studying for their upcoming French exam, but Ari has the attention span of a flea. Shirabu accepts this, he’s been ready for the test for a week now._

_“Oh, send me the article. I bet Semi would be interested in seeing that.”_

_“Say Semi again.” Ari pops up from behind her laptop, eyes narrowed. “And you might summon him.”_

_“He’s not Beetlejuice,” he scoffs. Still, his weak mind considers saying his name a third time, just for good measure._

_“And you’re not pining for him,” she counters, with a wink. “But I guess we’re both saying things that are obvious, hm?”_

At the risk of losing his friends, and his sanity, Shirabu hopes the week passes by quickly.

✧✧✧

Friday comes not a moment too soon; Shirabu is ready to jump out of his skin. He can’t tell whether he’s excited or nervous or some hideous combination of both, but he knows he hates whatever it is. Hours pass by at a snail’s pace, despite Yahaba’s best attempts to keep him distracted and focused on something that isn’t the clock. At noon, his phone vibrates, and Shirabu dives for it, even though he knows exactly who it is and the subject matter of the message.

 **Semi 12:00** : Project is turned in. Gonna go crash, and I’ll see you tonight.

Shirabu types a quick, noncommittal response and returns to his clock-watching as if his gaze could speed up time. Afternoon practice is a small mercy, as he manages to expend some of his nervous energy into his sets and serves, which seems to grant him extra strength.

“Maybe we should get you riled before every game,” Yahaba comments as Shirabu manages a jump serve that, while short, is much more formidable than his previous attempts. “That one was better. It’s still going to get returned easily, though.”

“Wait, why is Shirabu so worked up,” the first-year setter, his successor, asks. Like most times he appears, Shirabu doesn’t even notice where he came from.

“Because you’re not minding your own business,” he snarls. He doesn’t feel bad until the setter looks at him, dejected, like a kicked puppy. Shirabu feels a small tug at his heart, just because he fought with his “mentor” a lot in high school, didn’t mean he needed to foster a similar relationship with his eager junior. Though, who knows, maybe if he did, the two of them would end up falling in love five years from now. The thought is so absurd Shirabu laughs out loud.

Yahaba stares at him like he’s insane, and the young setter backs away.

“Wait,” Shirabu calls, and the setter stops. “If you give me five minutes, I’ll convince Kyoutani to spike some of your tosses. But only a few.”

“And, he’d like it if you buy him a chicken snack in exchange for his generosity,” Yahaba adds.

“Really? Of course, of course!”

“Sure, just leave us alone until then,” Shirabu says, waving his hand dismissively, and the first year makes himself scarce. Satisfied by his altruism, he reaches down to grab the last ball out of the cart.

“Ah, I see someone’s heart grown weak from the power of love,” Yahaba says dreamily. He bats his eyelashes and clasps his hands in front of his face in a faux demure gesture.

Shirabu scowls as he considers using his last ball to pummel Yahaba right in his stupid face. At least he knows he won’t miss from this distance.

“Are you gonna serve or not?”

“I’m trying to decide if I should hit you,” Shirabu says, not even trying to sugarcoat his intentions. He’s bodily threatened Yahaba so many times and in so many ways that at this point, Shirabu would be a suspect of great interest if he were ever to go missing.

Yahaba crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, that’s not productive. Serve the ball and pretend it’s me.”

Sounds fair enough. Shirabu gives himself a nice high toss, jumps, and smacks the ball as hard as he can. It barely skims over the top of the net, but lands in mid-court, farther than he’s ever managed to hit it before. He’ll have to start thinking of Yahaba more often.

“How was that,” Shirabu asks, smirking with pride. 

Yahaba’s mouth hangs open in awe...or disgust, it’s unclear which. “I can’t tell whether to be impressed or offended,” he whines. 

“It’s ok, you can be both.”

✧✧✧

The odd thing about time is that it’s only there when Shirabu _doesn’t_ need it. Earlier today, Shirabu seemed to have nothing but time to kill. When he gets home, it’s already five o’clock. Semi indicated he would be over sometime between five-thirty and six, depending on how long he slept after he turned in his project. At most, Shirabu has only an hour to get his shit together and presentable for Semi. This means showering, cleaning his disaster of a room, and getting into a headspace that isn’t as tightly wound as the one he’s in now.

“Fuck,” he says to no one in particular. Admittedly, he’s not sure why he’s so agitated about Semi coming over tonight. For all Shirabu knows, it’s just going to be like any other night they hang out. It’s not like there’s been any indication that they’re going to address their changing relationship. Yet somehow knows that whatever happens tonight, or doesn’t happen, their relationship will be immutably different. If he had to put things in more alarmist terms, tonight has the undertones of an ultimatum. _If things don’t go further, they never will_.

“Fuck.” He has every right to be worried. There’s a lot of pressure.

The next hour flies by in a blur. He showers, hangs up most of the clothes on his floor, and consolidates the rest in one small pile in a corner. After his room resembles something close to tidy, he heads to the kitchen and joins Yahaba and Kyoutani for a post-practice snack. It would be unwise to greet Semi in a hangry state. He doesn’t press on the fact that the duo, likely at Yahaba’s insistence, has parked themselves in the living room, rather than resting in bed. Fortunately, it doesn’t look like they intend to stay long. Friday nights are date nights for Yahaba and Kyoutani, and he hasn’t seen them miss one yet. Even when they’re away for tournaments or training camps, they always find time to do something for themselves. He does admire their relationship. From what it sounds like, it took a lot of hard work to get to the point they’re at, but they’ve managed to make it into something extraordinary, enviable even.

At 6:00 sharp, there’s a knock at the door, shattering a tense aura that Shirabu hadn’t even noticed was there. He sees Yahaba’s eyes light up, and he gives him a look that says “behave” before opening the door. Semi walks in with a bag of takeout and a look of relief on his face. Shirabu hasn’t “officially” seen Semi in a week, he did catch a glimpse of him in a library study room, huddled over his laptop and a stack of drafting papers. Though he looked composed, there were dark circles under his eyes and lines on his forehead, signaling great stress. It’s nice to see Semi looking healthy and rested again.

“Do you mind if I eat really fast? I overslept and didn’t get a chance,” Semi says sheepishly.

“Sure, grab a seat, I’ll get you a plate.”

Semi joins Yahaba and Kyoutani at the table, and the three fall into easy conversation. Shirabu is impressed by how well Semi and Kyoutani get along, and within minutes Yahaba gets booted in favor of them discussing professional soccer. Besides Kyoutani, Semi is the only other person he knows that enjoys the sport, and he’s never understood why. It just seems so—not Semi-like. They always get so enthusiastic talking about it when they’re together, so he can’t judge. Plus, Semi’s distraction gives him the opportunity to pick at random pieces of his food. Of course, Semi would share food with him if he asked but, as everyone knows, food tastes better when it’s stolen, not offered.

When Semi finishes his meal, Shirabu takes his plate to the kitchen, then attempts to relocate him to his bedroom as casually as possible. It’s not that they _need_ to be in the bedroom for any reason, he’s just too antsy to be in a common area, especially if Yahaba and Kyoutani intend to stay. To indicate his readiness, he doesn’t sit back down and hovers in the halfway space between the living room and his door. Yahaba catches on and nudges Kyoutani.

“Hey, we should get going if we want to make the movie.”

“We don’t have to go now, the movie doesn’t start for an hour and a half,” Kyoutani replies, wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah? Well, I want to get a snack before.” Yahaba pouts, whipping out the big guns in his arsenal.

Kyoutani is unmoved. “Have a snack here. We have lots of food.”

“Ok, you know what, we’re leaving. Let’s go.” Yahaba latches onto Kyoutani’s arm and pulls until he grudgingly stands and follows him to the entryway. Shirabu watches as they put their shoes and coats on and, with a final wave, head out the door. He’ll thank Yahaba later for suppressing the inappropriate comment he knows was on the tip of his tongue.

Semi is a much more intuitive person and, after throwing away his trash, walks with him to his room. The first thing Shirabu notices once they’re alone is that Semi is nervous. It’s nothing too blatant, but his leg bounces, and he’s picking at the pads of his fingers. It’s a leftover habit from high school when Semi had calluses from setting and serving. In a weird way, he’s thankful for Semi’s nerves. They make him feel more justified about the manic state he’s been in all day. To help ease the mood, he turns on some nice, light background music. Unfortunately, it’s not as effective as Shirabu hopes, because a full song passes in silence. It’s just about as awkward as the first time they hung out outside of practice, back when they weren’t too fond of each other. Perhaps things have come full circle. 

“So,” Shirabu starts. He feels like he needs to instigate the conversation before the room bursts into flames. “We don’t have to talk about it if you’re burnt out but, how’d your project go?”

Semi looks up from his hands. “Oh, ah, my Professor issued a grade already on the multiple choice portion of the project. I got a ninety-eight.”

“A ninety-eight out of what?” Shirabu asks, cocking his head.

There’s a hint of a smile. “No, goose. A ninety-eight percent.”

“Oh, that’s good,” he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. He’s happy for Semi but not good at summoning excitement on the spot.

Semi flops onto his back with a sigh, he covers his face with one of his hands. “Isn’t it crazy, I only have to get a thirty-percent on my 3-D model to pass the class. I can’t believe I lost so much sleep.”

“It sure is,” Shirabu says. He flips onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows. He can’t seem to hold a conversation or stay in one position for more than five seconds.

There’s another excruciatingly awkward silence, before saving grace comes. The song changes and Semi perks his head up at the opening chords. He can’t tell if Semi recognizes it or just likes it, either way, it’s a welcome distraction. Shirabu doesn’t know the song, and he suspects it’s one of the “featured artist recommendations” that the music app slips in at random. It’s much too upbeat for him, something he’d never listen to on his own, but appears to be just the right pace for Semi, who nods to the beat.

Suddenly, Semi is up on his feet, dancing like Tendou used to after scoring a point against a tough opponent. Shirabu is so stunned, he doesn’t even laugh or try to take a video. He sits, hypnotized by Semi’s brazen movements. He doesn’t get to observe for long, because before he can process what’s happening, a hand yanks him off the bed.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Shirabu yelps. If Semi thinks he’s going to dance along with him, he’s sorely mistaken. He’s almost positive, Semi’s strange behavior is a result of his nerves, which is fine, but he doesn’t want to be dragged into it.

“I’m shaking out the last of the stress,” Semi explains. “And this song is fun. C’mon, lighten up for me.”

Shirabu shakes his head. It’s a hard no, and Semi should know better than even to ask. The tempo picks up even more, and Semi is hopping around without a care in the world. There’s something about the fluid way he moves that is somewhat enticing, but only because it’s nice to see Semi so content and relaxed. He won’t join in, final answer.

Nothing can change his mind.

"Shirabu, please humor me. Just for the rest of this song?”

One thing can change his mind.

“Ok, just for this song.”

Semi’s voice is so earnest that Shirabu can’t find it within himself to deny him. It couldn’t hurt to do something with his body other than being anxious. He quickly finds out dancing is more natural for him when he’s shitfaced but does his best to relax (or dissociate) and allow the music to guide him. He looks at Semi, who’s grinning ear to ear, and feels more empowered in his choice. He likes to see him happy.

The two dance in their own little spaces, occasionally making eye contact, mostly just doing their own thing. But when Shirabu hits the lights, the situation starts to get more interesting, as situations tend to do in the cover of relative darkness. It starts when Semi, who closes his eyes when he dances, loses his balance and bumps backward into Shirabu. He catches him before they both fall, but not without hissing a “ _careful_ ,” before setting him loose again. Instead of pulling away, Semi offers out his hand and bows cordially.

Typically, this would be the time that Shirabu’s instincts to run would kick in. Tonight, he finds himself  accepting Semi’s hand with almost no hesitation, allowing himself to be pulled flush against him. He feels no embarrassment at their proximity, just the familiar tingle of anticipation creeping up his spine. There’s enough light left to see that Semi isn’t looking at him but past him, over his shoulder. His hands are ever so lightly sliding over his hips and lower back like he can’t decide where to place them. Shirabu snakes his arms around Semi’s neck, and they sway a few times before it’s clear that dancing is no longer the activity of interest.

After a long coda, the song ends, and the only sound in the room is the electric hum of the speakers and the sounds of their breathing. Shirabu keeps his grip on Semi, looking at him intently. Something big is about to happen and, before it does, he wants to commit every aspect of his face to memory, from the crooked line of his mouth, to the slope of his nose, to the mesmerizing flecks of amber in his dark eyes. All the while, Semi continues to slide his hands along the small of his back, slipping under his shirt to trace patterns like scriptures over his skin.

They both know where this is going. Shirabu would never admit to believing in fate, but as sure as all rivers run to the sea, so too would they find themselves here, in this exact moment. Trapped in the liminal space between what is and what will be. The laptop screen fades to black, leaving the only light from the streetlamp outside. There’s a choice to be made.

Shirabu leans in. Or, maybe it was Semi. Maybe it was both of them. In retrospect, he'll realize it doesn’t matter who started what. What matters is the burst of color he sees when Semi’s lips brush his own. The warmth that radiates in his chest and ignites him from head to toes. How his mind blanks, surrendering entirely to the sensation of being touched so tenderly by another person. No analysis, no dissection, no worry, just unadulterated feeling. Through all this, the thought doesn’t even cross his mind that when you break down a dam, you’re going to get a flood. So, he’s unprepared when it happens.

They kiss once, twice, three times, each one becoming more demanding than the last. Call it cliche, but he's has never been kissed like this. Sure, he’s been attracted to people he’s hooked up with before, but this is different, this is Eita, and Eita is incomparable. On the fourth kiss, Shirabu pulls back to take a breath and finds his throat is tight and his eyes are prickling. Without his permission, tears begin to fall, faster than he can wipe away and too obvious to hide. His mind roars, thoughts rush through at a fever pitch, too fast to even begin to acknowledge. His heart races, and his hands drop to his side. He can only watch numbly as Semi starts to run his own hands through his hair. He’s pacing, face strained with worry. 

“Fuck, oh shit. Now I’ve ruined everything,” Semi’s voice is high with panic. No! Shirabu wants to scream, but he can’t find his voice. He’s short-circuited, hovering between terror, euphoria, and a thousand other emotions he doesn’t know how to express.

“Ok, ok, we can talk this out,” he continues, desperately trying to de-escalate the situation. “Please, don’t cry.” It occurs to Shirabu that Semi has never seen him cry before. Even after their toughest losses in high school, he never showed more than a pained, bitter expression on his face. He’s sure that this is a confusing experience for Semi, watching him go from zero to sixty in the span of a kiss.

“I’m going to go outside. I’ll give you a few minutes,” he concludes. Shirabu doesn’t want space. The idea of Semi walking out the door feels like a jab to the heart. It’s irrational, but Shirabu feels that if he allows Semi to leave now, he probably won’t come back and, even if he did, he knows he won’t be able to face him again.

Semi starts to retreat, making good on his offer to leave. Shirabu is stuck in place, fists clenched, big, wet tears falling. He needs to say something. Anything. But his mind is a staticky mess, incapable of any kind of rational thought. He’s frustrated by how ineffectual he’s become—he’s going to watch Semi walk out that door, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Time passes in slow motion. Semi looks back once more, and he sighs when he notices that he hasn't moved an inch. He says something like “I’m sorry,” but it’s garbled like he’s speaking underwater; his arm slowly raises to reach for the door handle—and something in Shirabu snaps back into place.

“EITA,” he screams. It’s the only thing he can think of, but he hopes Semi understands that he wasn’t just yelling his name to get his attention. There are so many things he needs to tell him, all trying to rush out at once.

_Please don’t leave me. Please don’t give up on me._

Semi turns, his hand remains on the door. He gives Shirabu one long, appraising look, assessing what his next move should be. He’s right to be wary; Shirabu knows he has a history of being unpredictable and flighty in emotionally charged situations. The most rational move would be to put distance between them, but Shirabu is sure his tears are what’s holding Semi back, triggering his inclination to protect and care. He’s always been so soft, especially with those dear to him; to Shirabu, it’s one of his most beautiful traits.

“Eita,” he murmurs.

_Please be patient with me. I’m trying, but I’m scared._

His entire body is quivering, throughout this exchange, Shirabu has been fighting to keep his cries trapped in his chest. The situation is already dramatic enough, he doesn’t need to add his noisy, choked to sobs to the mix. Still, it’s draining to hold them back and, without warning, his legs buckle underneath him. He’s so taken aback that he does nothing to brace himself as he sinks to the ground.

Fortunately, Semi must have anticipated his fall because one minute he’s at the door, the next he’s with him, holding him in a hug so tight that the pressure almost hurts. Shirabu doesn’t complain and leans into him. He rubs his face along Semi’s shoulder, then raises his head to make eye contact. He’s not ready to talk yet, but he needs to reassure Semi that things are ok. He doesn’t want him getting any more ideas about leaving. When they face each other he does his best to give him a small smile, and Semi responds by cautiously placing a hand on his face; it’s large enough to both cup his cheek and wipe off a stray tear. The touch is so delicate that it’s overwhelming. It’s similar to the way he felt being held by Tendou, but a million times more powerful. Shirabu freezes under his ministrations, then rushes to burrow his face into Semi’s chest before the second onslaught comes.

He wails, unable to fight it anymore. He’s grateful no one else is home because he sounds like he’s in grave distress. Semi’s shirt can only muffle so much. He cries and cries, and at some point, loses track what he’s crying about in the first place. He’s forced himself to maintain composure, denying himself the catharsis he needs so many times that, at this point, he’s making up for lost time. Memories of previous repressions swim to the surface, flipping through his head like a film reel.

He’s twelve, and he’s sitting alone in the schoolyard. He’s heartbroken, or at least he thinks he is. It will be a couple more years before he realizes that a girl can’t break his heart. He doesn’t know that yet, though, and the sting of rejection leaves his lower lip trembling.

He’s fifteen, and he’s opening his Shiratorizawa acceptance letter. After months of busting his ass, he’s gotten in on an academic scholarship. His parents are beaming with pride, both shedding tears themselves. He can’t find it within himself to join, knowing that if they found out the reason he wanted to attend Shiratorizawa was volleyball, they wouldn’t be so elated.

He’s seventeen, and he’s getting hit in the face by one of Kawainishi’s spikes. It hurts like a bitch, and he’s so frustrated and in pain, that he just wants to have a good, dramatic cry. But his teammates insist on trying to follow him to the infirmary. The pain turns to anger, then dissolves into nothing.

He’s eighteen, and he’s had his first one-night stand. He’s on the train home, a routine that will become familiar to him in due time. There’s a hollow, empty feeling in his chest. What he doesn’t know is that he’ll chase that feeling for three more years. If he was aware of that then, he would have surely allowed himself to mourn.

And now, he’s twenty-one, and he’s just kissed his best friend. He’s terrified, unsure of what will happen next. What he does know is the fabric of Semi’s shirt, the solid sound of his heartbeat, the wire of his muscles holding him in place, and the soft rumbles of the affirmations he’s been whispering. He also knows the companionship, support, and loyalty he’s shown throughout their five years of friendship. If he puts his faith in that, maybe he doesn’t need to understand anything more.

He can’t seem to stop crying, but the tears have turned from bitter to sweet, and the bawls have simmered back down to snivels. A few more minutes pass when he feels the unmistakable motion of rocking. His eyes snap open, and he scrambles to sit up.

“Eita, are you rocking me,” he asks. His mouth is quivering, this time, with the hint of a laugh.

“Maybe,” Semi replies, his voice nonchalant. 

“I’m not a baby.” In a previous version of their relationship, Semi might have said something like, “ _oh? well, you’re crying like one_.” Now, Semi just shrugs with no snarky comment. How far they’ve come.

“I thought it might snap you out of it, and it did.” Semi grins, relieved at Shirabu’s improved mood.

Shirabu feels...good. Genuinely good. Not like the forced sense of stability from the train station, or the countless other times he’s found himself on the verge of a breakdown. His entire body feels light, unburdened and his mind somehow feels sharper. He can’t help but wonder how much his emotional baggage has been weighing on him.

At the first sign of negativity, Shirabu shuts it down by returning to rest against Semi’s chest. That is, until he feels the cool stickiness of his shirt. He shouldn’t be surprised, yet he recoils anyway with a “Yuck!” Semi’s shirt is soaked with tears, snot, and drool and there are marks from where Shirabu was gripping the fabric so hard, it warped. He really owes Semi a new one, for now, the least he can do is grab him something to change into.

He moves to get up and feels Semi’s arms tighten around him. He allows himself to be recaptured for a moment. “I’m going to get you something dry,” he says. Semi can’t argue with that and releases him.

While Shirabu searches for the largest sweater he has, Semi disappears from the room. He can hear cabinets opening and closing in the kitchen and the sound of the faucet. Soon after, he returns with a glass of water and a warmed towel. He sets the water on the bedside table and offers the cloth.

“Here, this will feel good on your face,” he says.

Shirabu lifts his hand to take the towel, then, has another idea. He stares at Semi expectantly and hopes that he’ll understand what he’s asking for. He’s too embarrassed to articulate what he wants directly. Somehow, Semi seems to know, and his mouth twists into a half-pout. “Really, Kenji?” Shirabu’s mouth wobbles at the use of the nickname—goddamn, he’s so sensitive right now—then nods, trying to look as serious as possible. It’s hard to do with his swollen, red eyes and runny nose. The only look he thinks he’s capable of pulling off right now is disgusting. He just about purrs when Semi brings the towel to his face, carefully dabbing at his eyes and cheeks before, bless his soul, wiping off his nose as well.

“It’s been less than an hour, and you’re already so spoiled,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the spot where Shirabu’s bangs meet his forehead.

“Yeah, but you like it,” Shirabu replies easily. The light banter is a sign they’re finding their footing again.

“Of course I do, I’ve wanted to do this for years.” Semi looks into his eyes, with a look of adoration that makes Shirabu feel far too hot and his heart feel far too large for his chest. 

“Here, ah, let me take that to the laundry,” he says, now flustered. He wonders how long it will take for him not to get wound up every time Semi is affectionate with him. It’s quite possible he’ll never get over it. “You can change, and I’ll wash your shirt, too.”

A few minutes later, Semi dons one of Shirabu’s comfiest sweaters and flops down onto his bed. Shirabu is somewhat hesitant to join him. Now that they’ve broken physical contact, he’s not quite sure how to go about re-initiating it, and he’s nervous all over again. Semi meets him halfway by extending his arms out in a hugging motion and beckoning him over. “Kenjirou, c’mere,” he says gently. It’s _déjà vu_ except for this time, Shirabu does come.

He starts by resting on Semi’s chest, which is nice because Semi pets his head and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s okay for a while, but eventually, he finds the courage to explore and begins to edge higher towards the inviting crook of Semi’s neck. It’s warm and comfortable to hide in, and Shirabu presses a couple of chaste kisses to the soft skin, relishing the sighs he elicits, before nuzzling it with his nose. Semi tilts his neck to make more room for Shirabu, and he takes full advantage of the access by continue to alternate kisses and nuzzles until he finds a special spot, where he can feel the thrum of Semi’s pulse. Here, Shirabu thinks, this is where he wants to make his home. He nudges his nose right above the pulse point and, because he’s feeling bold, grabs one of Semi’s hands and interlaces their fingers. He watches as Semi takes his hand and brushes his lips over knuckles before setting both their clasped hands down on his stomach.

For now, Shirabu will have to accept that Semi will always one-up him in the affection department. Fortunately for them, as long as they’re both willing to play, it’s a game they can both win.

✧✧✧

Shirabu didn’t even realize he drifted off. Actually, he didn’t even realize he was tired until he wakes up against the wall. The first thing he notices is that he’s no longer near Semi. He’s at the farthest possible point he can be while still remaining in bed. It’s disappointing, but expected, even in sleep, his natural defenses against intimacy are still up and running. Which means that he’s going to have to come crawling back to Semi if he wants more attention, and he does. He tries to flip over to no avail. There’s something pinning his ankle to the bed. When he props up on his elbow, he discovers that Semi has his ankle caged between his calves, preventing him from turning over.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were awake,” Semi says, unhooking his legs. Once freed, Shirabu can flip and scoot back towards him. “Right after you passed out you started to move away. I didn’t want to stop you, but...” Semi flushes and stumbles. “I was trying to keep you tethered to me, at least a little.”

Shirabu isn’t sure what to say. The admission falls under the category of “too romantic to process at this time.” He never pictured Semi to be such a sap when it came to relationships. His dry, brusque manner of speaking always seemed to suggest that he wouldn’t be the type to get too mushy. Apparently not.

Shirabu flips onto his side to look up at him. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Eita.”

“How would you know? We weren’t…” He trails off, but Shirabu’s mind supplies the rest of his sentence. _We weren’t dating_. It’s a fair point, but that raises other questions. What would the nature of their relationship be now? What are Semi’s expectations? What are his own expectations? He can feel himself getting jittery, did they need all the answers right now? No, Shirabu thinks, but the part of him that wants to do right by Semi knows that they should talk about what happened.

Or, alternatively, they could cuddle, fuck, or literally anything else in the world besides that.

“Is something on your mind,” Semi says, sensing his apprehension. He’s naturally intuitive, but Shirabu wonders if their kiss opened up some sort of telepathic link between them. No, that would be crazy. Also, his brain is clearly just trying to stall.

“Well, ah.” He’s off to a good start. “I just thought.” Almost there. “Do you think we need to talk about what happened?”

Semi cocks an eyebrow, and the right side of his mouth ticks up in a half-smile. He’s not sure if he said something amusing, or if Semi is enjoying watching him struggle to talk about his emotions, rather than aggressively suppress them. The way he’s watching him, he looks like a cat playing with a mouse—it’s moments like these when Shirabu understands why he and Tendou get along.

“Do you think we need to talk about it,” Semi parrots. Shirabu just about combusts. He hates rhetorical questions, or questions that sound rhetorical. He never knows how to answer.

“Uh, maybe? I don’t know. Isn’t that what people do?” At this point, Shirabu knows he sounds obtuse, but this conversation is new to him. The last time someone tried to have a “what are we?” talk with him, he quietly put his clothes on and blocked the poor guy’s number. To be fair, that was at least a year ago. It’s safe to say he’s grown since then.

Semi pats the spot next to him, and Shirabu obliges, closing the rest of the distance between them. He leans against Semi’s shoulder and feels his arm wrap around him. It’s nice being back in his space.

“So, Kenjirou. Tell me the ways you think our relationship will change.”

He’s tempted to groan out a “duh” in reference to their closeness. He scraps that in favor of a semblance of maturity. “Well we kissed, and we’re cuddling now so…”

Semi shakes his head. “Those are new things, not changes.”

Shirabu isn’t sure he buys into what Semi is saying, but he’s willing to hear him out. As the more emotionally attune of the two of them, he gets great deference. He looks at Semi, urging him to continue.

“The way I see it.” Shirabu feels Semi lean his head against his own so that he’s speaking into his hair. “The core of our relationship won’t change at all. We’re still the same Eita and Kenjirou, romance doesn’t change that. Now, we have all sorts of new things to explore together.”

“Mmm, like what.”

Semi doesn’t answer, just cups his face in his hands and leans in. Shirabu places a hand over his and meets him halfway. They brush noses before kissing again. Their previous kisses were brief and chaste. Now, they’re getting into the good stuff. Shirabu kisses with fervor, licking over the seam of Semi’s lips and gasping when he’s granted entrance. Semi’s hand wraps around the back of his neck, allowing them to deepen the kiss further. Their touches are slow, experimental, as they learn each other’s preferences and desires.

Shirabu learns that Semi like a dash of roughness, a fist in his hair, nails on his back, or a nip on his lip. It’s something Shirabu, who is aggressive in bed, is more than happy to provide. In turn, Semi discovers quickly that while Shirabu likes to project aggression, he’s most turned on by gentleness and intimacy. A feather-light kiss to the spot behind his ear has him keening, and when Semi licks and bites up his neck to murmur “ _you’re so beautiful_ ” in his ear, Shirabu flips their positions and paws at the waistband of his jeans with urgency.

“Wait. Stop, stop,” Semi says between pants. He gently grabs Shirabu’s wrists and slides his hands from his jeans up to his chest. “Not tonight.”

Shirabu blanks out. No one has ever said “no” to him before, at least when it comes to this kind of thing. His mouth twists into a grimace as he tries to process the rejection. Rationally, he knows Semi thinks he’s being gallant, but it stings. It’s hard not to assume that his hesitation has something to do with the person he is—no, the person he used to be.

He kneads his hands over Semi’s chest in an effort to collect his thoughts. He wants to phrase his next words and not blurt out “ _do you not want to fool around with me because I was slutty_?” He needs to be tactful than that.

“Eita, does my um, experience, turn you off?”

Semi doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course not, what you did before tonight is irrelevant.” His tone is sincere, but Shirabu isn’t ready to relax yet. He wants to lay it all out on the table.

“Even Ushijima and Tendou?”

There’s a pause this time. Semi speaks slowly, making each word deliberate. “Well, I can’t say I was thrilled to hear about that. But only because...” He takes a deep breath. “Only because I was jealous, and because it hurt to see how upset you were. You weren’t yourself.”

Shirabu snuggles into his shoulder and receives a peck on the top of his head. He’ll have to remember that for the future.

“But I think that if things hadn’t happened the way they did.” Semi continues. “We probably wouldn’t be at the place we’re at so...I don’t know. I’m definitely not trying to say I’m grateful.”

A bubble of laughter slips out of Shirabu before he can stop it. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or content to be in Semi’s presence. Before he knows it, Semi’s joined in, too. He’s happy that this conversation is going so well, and that Semi didn’t try to corral him into a “serious” talk. It’s refreshing that he’s so willing to meet Shirabu where he is now, rather than forcing him to the point he wants him to be.

“I guess I know what you mean,” he says. “I respect if you prefer to take things slow. As long as it’s not because of me.”

“It’s not. I just think there’s no rush to do everything right now.” Semi yawns. “And I’m kind of sleepy, it’s past midnight.”

“It’s been a long day for you. Let’s go to bed.” Shirabu strips off his shirt and joggers and pulls back his duvet.

“So, you want me to stay?”

“Please, don’t make me answer that,” Shirabu whines, burying his face into the pillow. He’s reached his upper limit of emotional expression for the night.

“Ok, ok. We’ll get there.” Semi rubs his back reassuringly. “Let’s go get ready for bed.”

Shirabu grumbles and shuffles under the duvet, so that only his eyes are visible. Semi needs to learn early: once he’s in bed, it is unwise to separate him from it.

“Don’t make me drag you out,” Semi coaxes. “I am bigger, stronger, and I care about your oral hygiene, especially now that you’re kissing me.”

Shirabu bears down and doesn’t budge. He’d like to see Semi try.

Five minutes later, they’ve returned to bed with clean teeth. Shirabu will probably never forget Semi yanking him out of bed by his ankles but, to be fair, he did warn him. Semi kisses him once, then settles into blankets. He’s grateful that he doesn’t try to cuddle. While he enjoyed their closeness earlier, the fact of the matter is that he’s used to sleeping alone, so it’s going to be an adjustment period. Still, he craves some sort of contact, so he taps Semi’s leg with his foot, encouraging him to wrap it in the same way as before.

“Just so I don’t drift too far away,” he says softly.

He feels his strong calves wrap around his ankle. “We wouldn’t want that,” Semi replies, his voice heavy with impending sleep.

The room goes quiet, save for the patter of rain against the window. He’s glad Semi is in here with him and not walking home through the downpour. It’s a foreign feeling, to value someone else’s safety and comfort at the same level as your own. Sure, Shirabu cares about people like his friends, his family, and his team. But none of that can hold a candle to how he feels about Semi right now.

Shirabu has an impulse. It’s not one that’s new to him; the idea has crossed his mind before. Finally, it feels like it might be an alright time to act on it.

He licks his lips. If his heart sped up, he does his best not to notice it. “Eita, are you awake?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound too convincing, but Shirabu can’t stop the next words from tumbling out.

“Would you want to go somewhere with me? Like on a trip?”

“Huh?” Semi flips to face him. He blinks a few times to get the sleep out of his eyes.

Shirabu internally chastises himself, this was a bad idea. He should know better than to just spring a question like this on someone. Plus, bedtime isn’t the most appropriate time to ask Semi to make a major life decision. Or, at least he thinks it’s a major life decision. It’s certainly an expensive one.

“I’m sorry. Let’s talk about this another time. Goodnight.” He reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp.

Semi gives him a puzzled look but doesn’t relent. “Goodnight.”

✧✧✧

The last thing Shirabu expects is to wake up alone. Confused, he runs his hand along the sheets to find that they’re cold like no one’s been there for a while. Or at all.

His stomach drops. Though Shirabu is used to waking up in empty beds, he never expected it to happen with Semi. Never. He racks his brain, trying to remember any clue as to what could have possibly put him off. Maybe his giant breakdown made Semi come to his senses. It would be shitty, but he wouldn’t blame him for deeming him too much to handle. He just hopes that whatever rift opened up can be repaired. It’ll take time, but he doesn’t want to write-off Semi from his life.

But before he thinks about how to mend their relationship, he needs to figure out if it’s even broken. His rational mind (which has been conveniently absent until now) insists that he shouldn’t foreclose on the idea that there is a reasonable explanation for Semi’s absence. They hadn’t planned for there to be a sleepover. Perhaps he had to slip out early. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand and is dismayed to find no texts. If Semi had left for good reason, he surely would have sent an explanation. Wouldn’t he?

Deflated, he flops onto the empty spot, finding that the space still smells like him. It’s familiar but not in any comforting way. His mouth wobbles, and he draws his knees to his chest. He knows he’s being dramatic, but a good number of his emotional walls crumbled yesterday. He’s feeling delicate and vulnerable and ready to cry at the drop of a hat. As a prelude, he lets out a pitiful whine.

And his door swings open.

“Hey, you’re up!” Comes Semi’s voice.

Shirabu pokes his head out from the blanket. “Semi?!”

There’s a sound of rustling, like clothes being removed, then, a dip in the bed.

“I’m demoted to my family name now, eh,” Semi asks, sliding up to his side. He pulls back the blanket and offers Shirabu a paper cup. “Maybe this coffee will sweeten you up. Or bitter you up, since you drink it black.”

Shirabu accepts the offering, but he isn’t off the hook. “I thought you left me,” Shirabu says flatly. He’s glad he didn’t spill tears, but he also wants to make sure Semi knows how upset he felt. “You could have sent a text.” 

“It was supposed to be a surprise, ever heard of one?” Then, his voice softens. “I’m sorry, Kenjirou. I realize how that might have looked.”

“Fuck off, Eita,” he says, but there’s no heat in his voice. After a few sips of his drink, he’s “over it” enough to settle against his shoulder. They sit in silence, drinking their coffee and enjoying the peace of a slow morning at home. Shirabu thinks he could get used to this. It’s surprising how the things he used to like doing alone are more gratifying with someone else.

He’s drifting off as Semi massages his scalp, when he’s brought back to reality by his voice. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Where did you want to go?”

“Mmm, what do you mean,” he slurs, still enraptured by his fingers. Also, he’s genuinely not sure what the hell Semi is referring to.

“Last night, you said you wanted to go on a trip. But for me to get tickets, you have to tell me where we’re going.”

Shirabu’s eyes fly open. He thought Semi had slept through that little tidbit, not considered it.

“Are you serious?” He’s sitting up now, watching Semi carefully, assessing his commitment. It’s unbelievable how willing he is to go along with this, even if Semi has always had an adventurous streak. “There’s—you shouldn’t feel any pressure.”

Arms wrap around him, and he’s on his side, lying face-to-face with Semi. He smiles encouragingly, tucking one of the longer hairs of Shirabu’s bangs out of his face.

“Tell me where we’re going.”

Shirabu wants to ask a million more questions. It’s in his nature to understand, to dice things up into digestible pieces, to pick ideas apart. It’s how he engages with the world around him, seeking safety in analysis. But somehow, that doesn’t feel right here. Maybe he doesn’t need to understand Semi’s rationale. Maybe he doesn’t need to know how or why he’s willing to accept an offer sprung on him less than twenty-four hours ago. Some things are best left unanswered. _Some things just are._

And, it’s not like they’re leaving tomorrow. Summer is a whole semester away. 

He rests his hand on top of Semi’s and squeezes. There’s no going back now.

“San Francisco, California.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe it's all over. Thank you for making it here, and I sincerely hope that the journey has been an enjoyable one for you. I’d love to hear what you thought so, if you have a moment, let me know by leaving a kudo, comment, or messaging me on my tumblr (below)! 
> 
> Edit (5/11): I didn't realize how much I'd enjoy writing, and I'm looking forward to improving. I have a few projects planned, so please look forward to that! :) 
> 
> See you on the flip side!


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